The  girl  drooped,  tired  from  the  long  climb 


RIMROCK    TRAIL 


BY  J.  ALLAN  DUNN 


AUTHOR  OF 
'A  Man  to  His  Mate/'  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


COPYRIGHT  1921 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT  1922 
J.  ALLAN  DUNN 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


ARTHUR  SULLIVANT  HOFFMAN 

To  his  loyal  friendship,  his  sincerity  and  the  caustic 
but  kindly  criticism  which  has  made  my  stuff  printable. 


M578542 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  GRIT          .       .       .       .  ' .      M     r.,      .  I 

II  CASEY „    t.    ,*«.,.    ,.,    „•  n 

III  MOLLY    ........    f.     .    M    «*     .     .  32 

IV  SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN 46 

V  IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK  .........  67 

(VI  PASO  CABRAS  .     .               .     .     .    ,.-.    -.«    .    ,.    ,.  81 

VII  BOLSA    GAP .  97 

VIII  THE  PASS  OF  THE  GOATS    ......<..  m 

IX  CAROCA        .............    ;.    ,.  119 

X  SANDY  RETURNS   .     . M    ™    <•     .  129 

XI  PAY  DIRT   .     .     .     .    „    ,. .    «    ......    ,.  135 

XII  WHITE  GOLD   ,.....«    «    ,.,..,.  159 

XIII  A  ROPE  BREAKS  .    ~    ^.    .     ,-«,,...     .     .  187 

XIV  A  FREE-FOR-ALL   .     .     .     .     .    r.,    „    „    .     .    ,.  202 
XV  CASEY  TOWN   .......    to,    «    « 232 

XVI  EAST  AND  WEST „*•,',     .     .  266 

XVII  WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS    .    M    M    .     .    ,.;    .    ..  291 

XVIII  DEHORNED   .    ,.     .    r.    *.<.,..    >•    ,«    .     .  310 

XIX  THE  HIDEOUT  .     .    ,.-    „.    .     .    ...    „    m    „    ,.    ,.  345 

XX  MOLLY  MINE  .     .    :.    M    M   M   »   «    .    >    r.     .  377 

XXI  THE  END  OF  THE  ROPE  .,    *•    *     .     .    «    M    u    -.  389 

XXII  THE  VERY  END   .     .     .     .    r.,    „    m    „    .     .    f.  396 


Rimrock 
Trail 


Rimrock  Trail 


CHAPTER  I 

GRIT 

44JI  /TORMON"    PETERS    carefully    shifted    his 

1VJL  weighty  bulk  in  the  chair  that  he  dared  not 
tilt,  gazing  dreamily  at  the  saw-toothed  mountains 
shimmering  in  the  distance,  sniffing  luxuriously  the 
scent  of  sage. 

"They  oughter  spell  Arizona  with  three  'C's,'  "  he 
said. 

"Why?"  asked  Sandy  Bourke,  wiping  the  superflu- 
ous oil  from  the  revolver  he  was  meticulously  clean- 
ing. 

"  'Count  of  Climate,  Cactus,  Cattle — an'  Coyotes." 

"Makin'  four,  'stead  of  three,"  said  the  managing 
partner  of  the  Three  Star  Ranch. 

Came  a  grunt  from  "Soda- Water"  Sam  as  he  put 
down  his  harmonica  on  which  he  had  been  playing 
The  Cowboy's  Lament,  with  variations. 

"Huh!  You  got  no  more  eddication  than  a  horn- 
toad,  an'  less  common  sense.  You  don't  spell  Ari- 
zony  with  a  'C.'  You  can't.  'Cordin'  to  yore  argy- 
mint  you  should  spell  Africa  with  a  'Z'  'cause  they 

I 


2  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

raise  zebras  there,  'stead  of  mustangs.  Might  make 
it  two  'R's,'  'count  of  rim-rock  an' — an'  revolvers." 

Mormon  snorted. 

"That's  a  hell  of  a  name  for  a  man  born  in  Mari- 
copa  County  to  call  a  gun.  Revolver!  You  'mind 
me  of  the  Boston  perfesser  who  come  to  Arizona 
tryin'  to  prove  the  Cliff  Dwellers  was  one  of  the  Lost 
Tribes  of  Israel.  He  blows  in  with  an  introduction 
to  the  Double  U,  where  I  was  workin'.  Colonel  Paw- 
lin's  wife  has  a  cold  snack  ready,  it  bein'  middlin' 
warm.  The  perfesser  makes  a  pretty  speech,  after 
he'd  eaten  two  men's  share  of  victuals  tryin',  I 
reckon,  to  put  some  flesh  on  to  his  bones.  An'  he  calls 
the  lunch  a  col-lay-shun!  Later,  he  asks  the  waitress 
down  to  the  Rodeo  Eatin'  House,  while  he's  waitin' 
for  his  train,  for  a  serve-yet.  A  serve-yet!  That's 
what  he  calls  a  napkin.  You  must  have  been  eddi- 
cated  in  Boston,  Sam,  though  it's  the  first  time  I  ever 
suspected  you  of  book  learnin'." 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  on  the  Three  Star  ranch- 
eria.  The  riders,  all  the  hands — with  the  exception  of 
Pedro,  the  Mexican  cocinero,  indifferent  to  most 
things,  including  his  cooking;  and  Joe,  his  half-breed 
helper, — had  departed,  clad  in  their  best  shirts,  vests, 
trousers,  Stetsons  and  bandannas  of  silk,  some  seek- 
ing a  poker  game  on  a  neighboring  rancho,  some  bent 
on  courting.  Pedro  and  Joe  lay,  faces  down,  under 
the  shade  of  the  trees  about  the  tenaya,  the  stone  cis- 
tern into  which  water  was  pumped  by  the  windmills 
that  worked  in  the  fitful  breezes. 


GRIT  3 

The  three  partners,  saddle-chums  for  years,  ever 
seeking  mutual  employ,  known  through  Texas  and 
Arizona  as  the  "Three  Musketeers  of  the  Range,"  sat 
on  the  porch  of  the  ranch-house,  discussing  business 
and  lighter  matters.  One  year  before  they  had  pooled 
their  savings  and  Sandy  Bourke,  youngest  of  the 
three  and  the  most  aggressive,  coolest  and  swiftest  of 
action,  had  gloriously  bucked  the  faro  tiger  and  won 
enough  to  buy  the  Three  Star  Ranch  and  certain 
rights  of  free  range.  The  purchase  had  not  included 
the  brand  of  the  late  owner.  Originally  the  holding 
had  been  called  the  Two-Bar-P.  As  certain  cattlemen 
were  not  wanting  who  had  a  knack  of  appropriating 
calves  and  changing  the  brands  of  steers,  Sandy  had 
been  glad  enough,  in  his  capacity  of  business  manager, 
to  change  the  name  of  the  ranch  and  brand.  Two- 
Bar-P  was  too  easily  altered  to  H-B,  U-P,  U-B,  O-P, 
or  B;  a  score  of  combinations  hard  to  prove  as  forg- 
eries. 

There  had  been  lengthy  argument  concerning  the 
new  name.  Three  Star,  so  Soda-Water  Sam — 
whose  nickname  was  satirical — opined,  smacked  of 
the  saloon  rather  than  the  ranch,  but  it  was  finally 
decided  on  and  the  branding-irons  duly  made. 

Sandy  Bourke  had  dark  brown  hair,  inclined  to  be 
curly,  a  tendency  he  offset  by  frequent  clipping  of 
his  thatch.  The  sobriquet  of  "Sandy"  referred  to 
his  grit.  He  was  broad-shouldered,  tall  and  lean, 
weighing  a  hundred  and  seventy  pounds  of  well- 
strung  frame.  His  eyes  were  gray  and  the  lids  sun- 


4  KIMROCK  TRAIL 

puckered;  his  deeply  tanned  skin  showed  the  freckles 
on  face  and  hands  as  faint  inlays ;  his  long  limber  legs 
were  slightly  bowed. 

Not  so  the  curve  of  Soda- Water  Sam's  legs.  You 
could  pass  a  small  keg  between  the  latter's  knees  with- 
out interference.  Otherwise,  Sam,  whose  last  name 
was  Manning,  was  mainly  distinguished  by  his  enor- 
mous drooping  mustache,  suggesting  the  horns  of  a 
Texas  steer,  inverted. 

As  for  Mormon,  disillusioned  hero  of  three  matri- 
monial adventures,  woman-soft  where  Sandy  was 
woman-shy,  he  was  high-stomached,  too  stout  for 
saddle-ease  to  himself  or  mount,  sun-rouged  where  his 
partners  were  burned  brown.  His  pate  was  bald  save 
for  a  tonsure-fringe  of  grizzle-red. 

All  three  were  first-rate  cattlemen,  their  enterprise 
bade  fair  for  success,  hampered  only  by  the  lack  of 
capital,  occasioned  by  Sandy's  preference  for  modern 
methods  as  evidenced  by  thoroughbred  bulls,  high- 
grading  of  his  steers,  the  steadily  growing  patches  of 
alfalfa  and  the  spreading  network  of  irrigation  ditches. 

Business  exhausted,  ending  with  an  often  expressed 
desire  for  a  woman  cook  who  could  also  perform  a 
few  household  chores,  tagged  with  a  last  attempt  to 
persuade  Mormon  to  marry  some  comfortable  person 
who  would  act  in  that  capacity,  they  had  reverted  to 
the  good-humored  chaff  that  always  marked  their 
talks  together. 

Mormon,  with  stubby  fingers  wonderfully  deft,  was 
plaiting  horsehair  about  a  stick  of  hardwood  to  form 


GRIT  5 

the  handle  of  a  quirt,  Sandy  overhauling  his  two 
Colts  and  Sam  furnishing  orchestra  on  his  harmonica. 
Now  he  put  it  to  his  lips,  unable  to  find  a  sufficiently 
crushing  retort  to  Mormon's  diatribe  against  words 
of  more  than  one  syllable,  breathing  out  the  burden 
of  "My  Bonnie  lies  over  the  Ocean." 

Mormon,  in  a  husky,  yet  musical  bass,  supplied  the 
cowboy's  version  of  the  words. 

"Last  night,  as  I  lay  in  the  per-rair-ree. 

And  gazed  at  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
I  wondered  if  ever  a  cowboy, 
Could  drift  to  that  sweet  by-an'-by. 

"Roll  on,  roll  on, 

Roll  on,  liT  dogies,  roll " 


He  broke  off  suddenly,  staring  at  the  fringe  of  the 
waving  mesquite. 

"Look  at  that  ornery  coyote!"  he  said.  "Got  his 
nerve  with  him,  the  mangy  calf-eater,  comin'  up  to 
the  ranch  thataway." 

Sam  put  down  his  harmonica. 

"My  Winchester's  jest  inside  the  door,"  he  said. 
"But  he'd  scoot  if  I  moved.  Slip  in  a  shell,  Sandy, 
mebbe  you  kin  git  him  in  a  minute." 

"Yo're  sheddin'  yore  skin,  Sam.  Got  horn  over 
yore  eyes.  Mormon,  you  need  glasses  fo'  yore  old  age. 
That  ain't  a  coyote,  it's  a  dawg,"  pronounced  Sandy. 

The  creature  left  the  cover  of  the  mesquite  and 
came  slowly  but  determinedly  toward  the  ranch-house, 
past  the  corral  and  cook  shack ;  its  daring  proclaiming 


6  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

it  anything  but  a  cowardly,  foot-hill  coyote.  Its  coat 
was  whitish  gray.  Its  brush  was  down,  almost  trail- 
ing, its  muzzle  drooped,  it  went  lamely  on  all  four 
legs  and  occasionally  limped  on  three. 

"Collie!"  proclaimed  Sandy.  "Pore  devil's  plumb 
tuckered  out." 

"Sheepdawg!"  affirmed  Sam,  disgust  in  his  voice. 
"Hell  of  a  gall  to  come  round  a  cattle  ranch." 

The  gray-white  dog  came  on,  dry  tongue  lolling, 
observant  of  the  men,  glancing  toward  the  tenaya 
where  it  smelled  the  slumbering  Pedro  and  Joe.  It 
halted  twenty  feet  from  the  porch,  one  paw  up,  as 
Sandy  bent  forward  and  called  to  it. 

"Come  on,  you  dawg.  Come  in,  ol'  feller.  Mor- 
mon, take  that  hair  out  of  that  pan  of  water  an'  set 
it  where  he  can  see  it." 

Mormon  shifted  the  pan  in  which  he  had  been 
soaking  the  horsehair  for  easier  plaiting  and  the  dog 
sniffed  at  it,  watching  Sandy  closely  with  eyes  that 
were  dim  from  thirst  and  weariness.  Sandy  patted 
his  knee  encouragingly,  and  the  tired  animal  seemed 
suddenly  to  make  up  its  mind.  Ignoring  the  water,  it 
came  straight  to  Sandy,  uttered  a  harsh  whine,  catch- 
ing at  the  leather  tassel  on  the  cowman's  worn  leather 
chaparejos,  tugging  feebly.  As  Sandy  stooped  to  pat 
its  head,  powdered  with  the  alkali  dust  that  covered 
its  coat,  the  collie  released  its  hold  and  collapsed  on 
one  side,  panting,  utterly  exhausted,  with  glazing 
eyes  that  held  appeal. 

Sandy  reached  for  the  pan,  squatting  down,  and 


GRIT  7 

chucked  some  water  from  the  palm  of  his  hand  into 
the  open  jaws,  upon  the  swollen  tongue.  The  dog 
licked  his  hand,  whined  again,  tried  to  stand  up,  failed, 
succeeded  with  the  aid  of  friendly  fingers  in  its  ruff 
and  eagerly  lapped  a  few  mouthfuls. 

Again  it  seized  the  tassel  and  pulled,  looking  up  into 
Sandy's  face  imploringly. 

"Somethin'  wrong/'  said  the  manager  of  the  Three 
Star.  "Tryin'  to  tell  us  about  it.  All  right,  ol'  feller, 
you  drink  some  more  wateh.  Let  me  look  at  that 
paw."  He  gently  took  the  foot  that  clawed  at  his 
chaps  and  examined  it.  The  pad  was  worn  to  the 
quick,  bleeding.  "Come  out  of  the  Bad  Lands,"  he 
said,  looking  toward  the  range.  "Through  Pyramid 
Pass,  likely." 

"Some  derned  sheepman  gone  crazy  an'  shot  his- 
self,"  grumbled  Sam.  "Somethin'  bound  to  spile  a 
quiet  afternoon." 

"Not  many  sheep  over  that  way,"  said  Mormon. 
"No  range." 

Sandy  rolled  the  dog  on  his  side  and  found  the 
other  pads  in  the  same  condition.  Running  his  fin- 
gers beneath  the  ruff,  scratching  gently  in  sign  of 
friendship,  he  discovered  a  leather  collar  with  a  brass 
tag,  rudely  engraved,  the  lettering  worn  but  legible. 

GRIT.    Prop.  P.  Casey. 

"They  sure  named  you  right,  son,"  he  said.  "We'll 
'tend  to  P.  Casey,  soon's  we've  'tended  to  you.  You 
need  fixin'  if  you're  goin'  to  take  us  to  him.  You'll 


8  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

have  to  hoof  it  till  we  cut  fair  trail.  Sam,  fetch  me 
some  adhesive,  will  you  ?  An'  then  saddle  up ;  Pronto 
fo'  me,  a  hawss  fo'  yoreself  an'  rope  a  spare  mount." 

"What  for?    The  spare?" 

"Don't  know  for  sure.  May  have  to  bring  him 
back." 

"A  sheepman  to  Three.  Star!  I'd  as  soon  have  a 
sick  rattler  around.  Mormon,  yo're  elected  to  nurse 
him." 

Sam  went  into  the  house  for  the  medical  tape,  then 
to  the  corral.  Sandy  bathed  the  raw  pads  softly,  cut 
patches  of  the  tape  with  his  knife,  put  them  on  the 
abrasions,  held  them  there  for  the  warmth  of  his  palm 
to  set  them.  Grit  licked  at  his  hands  whenever  they 
were  in  teach,  his  brightening  eyes  full  of  understand- 
ing, shifting  to  watch  Sam  striding  to  the  corral. 

"One  thing  about  a  sheepman  is  allus  good,"  said 
Mormon.  "His  dawg.  Reckon  you  aim  on  me  tendin' 
the  ranch,  Sandy?" 

"Come  if  you  want  to." 

"Two's  plenty,  I  reckon.  I  do  more  ridin'  through 
the  week  than  I  care  for  nowadays.  I'll  stick  to  the 
chair." 

"Prod  up  Pedro  to  git  some  hot  water  ready.  Keep 
a  kittle  b'ilin'.  No  tellin'  what  time  we'll  git  back," 
said  Sandy.  "I'll  take  along  some  grub  an'  the  medi- 
cine kit.  Have  to  spare  some  of  that  whisky  Sam's 
got  stowed  away." 

"Coin'  to  waste  booze  at  fifteen  bucks  a  quart  on  a 
sheepman?"  grumbled  Mormon. 


GRIT  9 

"Not  if  you  an'  Sam  don't  want  I  should,"  replied 
Sandy,  with  a  smile.  He  knew  his  partners.  "Now 
then,  Grit,"  he  went  on  to  the  dog  in  a  confidential 
tone,  "you-all  have  got  to  git  grub  an'  wateh  inside 
yore  ribs.  Savvy  ?  I'm  goin'  to  rustle  some  hash 
fo'  you.  You  stay  as  you  are,  son." 

He  pressed  the  dog  on  its  side  once  more,  in  the 
shade,  and  went  into  the  house.  Mormon  followed 
him.  Grit  watched  them  disappear,  gave  a  little 
whine  of  impatience,  accepted  the  situation  philo- 
sophically as  he  listened  to  sounds  from  the  corral  that 
told  him  of  horses  being  caught,  and  drooped  his  head 
on  the  dirt,  lying  relaxed,  eyes  closed,  gaining  strength 
against  the  return  trip. 

Sam  rode  to  the  porch  on  his  roan,  Sandy's  pinto 
and  a  gray  mare  leading,  and  "tied  them  to  the 
ground"  with  trailing  reins  as  Sandy  came  out  bearing 
a  pan  of  food,  a  package  and  a  leather  case.  Mor- 
mon showed  at  the  door. 

"Where'd  you  hide  yore  bottle,  Sam?"  he  asked. 

"Where  you  can't  find  it,  you  holler-legged  galoot. 
Why?" 

"Fill  up  a  flask  to  take  along,  Sam,"  said  Sandy. 
"Here,  Grit,  climb  outside  of  this  chuck." 

He  coaxed  the  collie  to  eat  the  food  from  his  hand 
while  Sam  brought  the  whisky. 

"Load  my  guns,  Mormon,"  he  requested. 

Mormon  did  it  without  comment.  The  two  blued 
Colts  were  as  much  a  part  of  Sandy's  working  outfit 
as  his  belt,  or  the  bridle  of  his  horse.  Sam  buckled 


10  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

on  his  own  cartridge  belt,  holster  and  pistol,  fixed  his 
spurs,  tied  the  package  of  food  to  his  saddle,  filled 
two  canteens  and  did  the  same  with  them.  Sandy 
offered  the  pan  of  water  to  Grit  who  drank  in  busi- 
nesslike fashion,  assured  of  the  success  of  his  mission. 
He  stood  up  squarely  on  his  legs,  eased  by  the  plas- 
tering. They  were  only  tired  now. 

He  shook  himself  vigorously,  sending  out  the  dust 
with  which  he  was  powdered  in  all  directions,  making 
Mormon  sneeze.  He  stretched  his  muzzle  toward  the 
mountains,  threw  it  up  and  barked  for  the  first  time. 
As  Sandy  and  Sam  mounted,  the  latter  leading  the 
gray  mare,  Grit  ran  ahead  of  them  and  came  back  to 
make  certain  they  were  following.  Then  he  headed 
for  the  spot  in  the  mesquite  whence  he  had  emerged, 
marking  the  opening  of  a  narrow  trail.  The  horses 
broke  into  a  lope,  the  two  men,  the  three  mounts,  and 
the  dog,  off  on  their  errand  of  mercy. 

Mormon  watched  them  well  into  the  mesquite  be- 
fore he  put  back  the  hair  in  the  water  the  dog  had  left 
and  went  on  with  his  plaiting.  As  he  handled  the 
pliant  horsehairs  he  talked  aloud,  range  fashion. 

"On'y  sheepman  I  ever  knowed  worth  trubblin' 
about  was  a  woman.  Used  ter  knit  while  she  watched 
the  woollies.  Knit  me  a  sweater — plumb  useless  waste 
of  time  an*  yarn.  If  I'd  taken  it  I'd  have  had  to  take 
her  along  with  it.  Wimmen  is  sure  persistent.  Seems 
like  I  must  look  like  a  dogie  to  most  of  'em.  They're 
allus  wantin'  to  marry  me  an'  mother  me.  I  sure  hope 
this  one  don't  turn  out  to  be  a  she-herder.  T'  might 
stand  fer  Polly." 


CHAPTER  II 

CASEY 

THE  two  men  followed  the  dog  across  the  flats, 
through  mesquite,  through  scattered  sage  and 
greasewood,  mounting  gradually  through  chaparral  to 
barren  slopes  set  with  strange  twisted  shapes  of  cactus. 
When  it  became  apparent  that  Sandy's  hazard  had  hit 
the  mark,  as  they  entered  the  defile  that  made  entrance 
for  Pyramid  Pass,  the  only  path  across  the  Cumbre 
Range  to  the  Bad  Lands  beyond,  Sandy  reined  in, 
coaxed  up  Grit,  resentful,  almost  suspicious  of  any 
halt,  lifting  the  collie  to  the  saddle  in  front  of  him. 
Grit  protested  and  the  pinto  plunged,  but  Sandy's  per- 
sistence, the  soothe  of  his  steady  voice,  persuaded  the 
dog  at  last  to  accommodate  itself  as  best  it  could, 
helped  by  Sandy's  one  arm,  sometimes  with  two  as 
Sandy,  riding  with  knees  welded  to  Pronto's  withers, 
dropping  reins  over  the  saddle  horn,  left  the  rest  to 
the  horse. 

"I  figger  we  got  some  distance  yet,"  he  said  to 
Sam.  "Dawg  was  goin'  steady  as  a  woodchuck  ten 
mile'  from  water.  Reckon  my  guess  was  right, — he 
wore  his  pads  out  crossin'  the  lava  beds,  though  what 
in  time  any  hombre  who  ain't  plumb  loco  is  trapesin' 

ii 


12  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

round  there  for,  beats  me.  There  is  some  grazin'  on 
top  of  the  Cumbre  mesa,  enough  for  a  small  herd, 
but  the  other  side  is  jest  plain  hell  with  the  lights  out, 
one  big  slice  of  desert  thirty  mile'  wide." 

"Minin'  camp  over  that  way,  ain't  there?" 

"Was.  There's  a  lava  bed  strip  of  six-seven  miles 
at  the  end  of  the  pass,  then  comes  a  bu'sted  mesa,  all 
box  canon  an'  rim-rock,  shot  with  caves,  nothin' 
greener  than  cactus  an'  not  much  of  that.  There's  a 
twenty  per  cent,  grade  wagon  road,  or  there  was,  for 
it  warn't  engineered  none  too  careful,  that  run  over  to 
the  mines.  I  was  over  there  once,  nigh  on  to  ten  years 
ago.  They  called  the  camp  Hopeful  then.  Next  year 
they  changed  the  name  to  Dynamite.  Jest  natchenilly 
blew  up,  did  that  camp.  Nothin'  left  but  a  lot  of 
tumbledown  shacks  an'  a  couple  hundred  shafts  an' 
tunnels  leadin'  to  nothin'.  Reckon  this  P.  Casey  is  a 
prospector,  Sam.  One  of  them  half  crazy  old-timers, 
nosin'  round  tryin'  to  pick  up  lost  leads.  One  of  the 
'riginal  crowd  that  called  the  dump  Hopeful,  like 
enough.  Desert  Rat.  Them  fellers  is  born  with  hope 
an'  it's  the  last  thing  to  leave  'em." 

"Hope's  a  good  hawss,"  said  Sam.  "But  it  sure 
needs  Luck  fo'  a  runnin'  mate." 

"You  said  it."     Sandy  relapsed  into  silence. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  pass  the  dog  struggled  to  get 
down.  They  looked  out  upon  a  stretch  of  desolation. 
Sandy  had  called  it  six  or  seven  miles.  It  might  have 
been  two  or  twenty.  The  deceit  of  rarefied  air  was 
intensified  by  the  dazzle  of  the  merciless  sun  beating 


CASEY  13 

down  on  powdered  alkali,  on  snaky  flows  of  weathered 
lava,  on  mock  lakes  that  sparkled  and  dissolved  in 
mirage.  The  broken  mesa,  across  which  ran  the  road 
to  the  deserted  mining  camp,  mysteriously  changed 
form  before  their  eyes;  unsubstantial  masses  in  pastel 
lights  and  shades  of  saffron,  mauve  and  rose.  Over 
all  was  the  hard  vault  of  the  sky-like  polished  tur- 
quoise. 

"I'll  let  him  give  us  a  lead,"  said  Sandy,  "soon  as 
we  hit  the  lava.  We  can  foller  his  trail  that  fur.  Sit 
tight,  son."  Grit  whined  but  subsided  under  the 
restraining  hands. 

"How  about  a  drink  'fore  we  tackle  that?"  asked 
Sam,  nodding  at  the  shimmering  view. 

"Better  hold  off  for  a  while."  Sandy  took  the  lead, 
bending  from  the  saddle,  reading  the  trail  that  Grit's 
paws  had  left  in  the  alkali  and  sand.  Cactus  reared 
its  spiny  stems  or  sprawled  over  the  ground  more  like 
strange  water-growths  that  had  survived  the  empty- 
ing of  an  inland  sea  than  vegetation  of  the  land.  Once 
the  dog's  tracks  led  aside  to  a  scummy  puddle,  sau- 
cered  by  alkali,  dotted  with  the  spoor  of  desert  animals 
that  drank  the  bitter  water  in  extremity.  Then  it  ran 
straight  to  a  wide  reef  of  lava.  Sandy  set  down  the 
collie.  Grit  ran  fast  across  the  pitted  surface,  ahead 
of  the  horses,  waiting  for  them  to  cross  the  lava.  They 
had  hard  work  to  get  him  to  come  to  hand  again,  but 
he  gave  in  at  last  to  the  knowledge  that  they  would 
not  go  on  otherwise. 

"Sand's  too  hot  fo'  yore  pads,  dawg,"  said  Sandy. 


14  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Raise  the  mischief  with  that  tape.  Shack  erlong, 
Pronto.  Give  you  a  slice  of  Pedro's  dried-apple  pie 
when  we  git  back,  to  make  up  for  workin'  you  Sun- 
day." The  pinto  tossed  a  pink  muzzle  and  his  master 
reached  to  pat  the  dusty,  sweat-streaked  neck.  Alkali 
rose  about  them  in  clouds.  Grit's  trail,  though  blurred 
in  the  soft  soil,  was  plain  enough.  The  two  riders 
went  silently  on  at  a  steady  walking  gait.  Talk  in  the 
saddle  with  men  who  make  range-riding  a  business 
comes  only  in  spurts. 

"Never  see  a  prospector  with  a  dawg  afore,"  said 
Sam  at  last.  "An'  that  a  sheep  dawg." 

"Dawg  'ud  be  apt  to  tucker  out  in  desert  travel," 
agreed  Sandy.  "Mean  one  more  mouth  fo'  water." 

He,  like  Sam,  speculated  on  the  kind  of  man  P. 
Casey — if  it  was  Casey  they  were  after — might  be. 
If  not  a  sheepman  or  a  prospector,  a  third  probability 
made  him  an  outlaw,  a  man  with  a  price  on  his  head, 
hiding  in  the  wilds  from  punishment.  It  sufficed  to 
them  that  he  was  a  man  whom  a  dog  loved  enough  to 
bear  a  call  to  help  his  master. 

Slowly,  the  mesa  ahead  took  on  more  definite  shape. 
The  shadows  resolved  themselves  into  ravines  and 
canons.  They  entered  a  gorge  filled  with  boulders 
and  rounded  rocks,  over  which  the  sure-footed  ponies 
made  clattering,  slippery  progress.  Here  and  there 
the  gaunt  skeleton  of  a  tree,  white  as  if  lime-washed, 
showed  that  once  cottonwoods  had  flourished  before 
the  devouring  desert  had  claimed  the  territory.  The 
cactus  was  all  prickly  pear,  the  gray-green  flesh  of  the 


CASEY  15 

flat  leaves  starred  with  brilliant  blossom.  Along  one 
side  of  the  canon,  mounting  zigzag,  showed  the 
remains  of  a  road,  broken  down  by  landslip  and  the 
furious  rush  of  cloud-burst  waters. 

Making  this,  finding  it  free  of  wagon  sign  or  horse 
tracks,  Sandy  picked  up  Grit's  trail  once  again.  The 
collie  wriggled,  shot  up  its  muzzle,  whined,  licked 
Sandy's  face. 

"Nigh  there,"  suggested  Sam.  Sandy  nodded  and 
let  the  dog  get  down.  Grit  raced  off,  nose  high, 
streaking  around  a  curve.  When  they  reached  it  he 
was  out  of  sight.  The  road  had  been  built  up  in  places 
on  the  outer  edge  with  stones,  dry-piled.  They  had 
fallen  away,  the  grade  following,  so  that  sometimes 
all  that  was  left  for  passage  was  a  ledge  along  which 
the  horses  sidled  carefully  in  single  file,  stirrups 
brushing  the  inside  bank.  The  zigzags  ended,  the 
canon  narrowed,  deepened.  Sandy  looked  down  to 
the  dry  bed  of  it  four  hundred  feet  below.  The  road 
rose  at  a  steep  pitch,  cliff  to  the  right,  precipice  to  the 
left,  stretching  on  and  up  to  the  summit  of  the  pass. 

Suddenly  Pronto  shied  violently,  tried  to  bolt  up 
the  cliff,  scrambling  goatwise  for  twenty  feet  to  stand 
shivering  and  snorting.  Sandy's  balance  was  auto- 
matic, the  muscles  of  his  knees  clamped  for  grip,  he 
gave  the  pinto  its  head,  trusting  to  it  to  establish  foot- 
ing. He  saw  Sam's  roan  dancing  in  the  trail,  the  led 
mare  plunging,  dust  rising  all  about  them.  Left- 
handed,  a  Colt  flashed  out  of  Sandy's  holster,  barked 
twice,  the  echoes  tossing  between  the  canon  walls.  In 


16  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

the  road  a  rattlesnake  writhed,  headless,  its  body, 
thicker  than  a  man's  wrist,  checkered  in  dirty  gray  and 
chocolate  diamonds. 

"Git  down  there,  you  hysteric  son  of  a  gun,"  he  said 
to  the  horse.  "It's  all  over."  The  pinto  hesitated, 
shifted  unwilling  hoofs,  squatted  on  its  haunches  and, 
tail  sweeping  the  dirt,  tobogganed  down  to  the  road, 
jumping  catwise  the  moment  it  was  reached,  away 
from  the  squirming  terror.  Sandy  forced  him  back, 
leaned  far  down,  tucked  the  barrel  of  the  gun  under 
the  snake's  body  and  hurled  it  looping  into  the  gorge. 
Sam  got  his  roan  and  the  mare  under  control  as  the 
dust  subsided. 

"More'n  a  dozen  buttons,"  said  Sandy.    "Listen !" 

Grit,  unseen,  ahead,  was  barking  in  staccato  volleys. 
There  was  another  sound,  a  faint  shout,  unmistakably 
human.  The  men  looked  at  each  other  with  eyebrows 
raised. 

"That  ain't  no  man's  voice,"  said  Sam.  "That's  a 
gal."  He  looked  quizzically  at  Sandy,  knowing  his 
chum's  inhibition. 

Sandy  was  woman-shy.  Men  met  his  level  glance, 
fairly,  with  swift  certainty  that  here  stood  a  man, 
four-square ;  or  shiftily,  according  to  their  ease  of  con- 
science, knowing  his  breed.  Sandy  was  a  two-gun 
man  but  he  was  not  a  killer.  There  were  no  notches 
on  the  handles  of  his  Colts.  In  earlier  days  he  had 
shot  with  deadly  aim  and  purpose,  but  never  save  in 
self-defense  and  upon  the  side  of  law  and  right  and 
order.  Among  men  his  poise  was  secure  but,  in  a 


CASEY  17 

woman's  presence,  Sandy  Bourke's  tongue  was  tied 
save  in  emergency,  his  wits  tangled.  Whatever  he 
privately  felt  of  the  attraction  of  the  opposite  sex,  the 
proximity  of  a  girl  produced  an  embarrassment  he 
hated  but  could  not  help.  He  had  seen  admiration, 
desire  for  closer  acquaintance,  in  many  a  fair  face 
but  such  invitation  affected  him  as  the  sight  of  a 
circling  loop  affects  a  horse  in  a  remuda. 

He  gave  Sam  no  chance  for  banter.  Action  was 
forward  and  it  always  straightened  out  the  short-cir- 
cuitings  of  Sandy's  mental  reflexes  toward  woman- 
kind. He  touched  Pronto's  flanks  with  the  dulled 
rowels  he  wore,  and  the  pinto  broke  into  a  lope.  A 
big  boulder  was  perched  upon  the  nigh  side  of  the 
road.  Grit  came  out  from  behind  it,  barked,  whirled 
and  seemingly  dived  into  the  canon.  Coming  up  writh 
the  mare,  Sam  found  Sandy  dismounted,  waiting  for 
him. 

What  had  happened  was  plain  to  both  of  them.  The 
rotten,  hastily  made  road  collapsed  under  the  lurch  of 
a  wagon  jolting  over  outcrop  uncovered  by  the  rains. 
Scored  dirt  where  frantic  hoofs  had  pawed  in  vain, 
tire  marks  that  ended  in  side  scrapes  and  vanished. 

Sam  got  off  the  roan,  the  tired  horses  standing  still, 
snuffing  the  marks  of  trouble.  Far  down  the  slope 
Grit  gave  tongue.  The  cliff  shouldered  out  and  they 
could  see  nothing  from  the  broken  road.  How  any 
one  could  have  hurtled  over  the  precipice  and  be  still 
able  to  call  for  help  without  the  aid  of  some  miracle 
was  an  enigma.  They  listened  for  another  shout  but, 


1 8  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

save  for  the  barking  of  the  dog,  there  was  silence  in 
the  grim  gorge.  In  the  sky,  two  buzzards  wheeled. 

Sandy  poured  a  scant  measure  of  water  from  his 
canteen  into  the  punched-in  crown  of  his  Stetson,  after 
he  had  knocked  out  the  dust.  Sam  did  the  same,  giv- 
ing each  horse  a  mouth-rinse  and  a  swallow  of  tepid 
water  so  they  would  stand  more  contentedly.  Each 
took  a  swift  swig  from  the  containers.  Sandy  untied 
the  package  of  food  and  the  leather  medicine  kit,  Sam 
slapped  his  hip  to  be  sure  of  his  whisky  flask.  Aided 
by  their  high  heels,  digging  them  in  the  unstable  dirt, 
they  worked  down  the  cliff,  rounding  the  shoulder. 

A  wide  ledge  of  outcrop  jutted  out  from  the  canon 
wall  jagged  into  battlements.  Piled  there  was  a  wagon, 
on  its  side,  the  canvas  tilt  sagged  in,  its  hoops  broken. 
A  white  horse,  emaciated,  little  more  than  buzzard 
meat  when  alive,  lay  with  its  legs  stiff  in  the  air,  neck 
flattened  and  head  limp.  A  broken  pole,  with  splin- 
tered ends,  crossed  the  body  of  its  mate,  a  bay,  gaunt- 
hipped,  high  of  ribs.  It  lay  still,  but  its  flanks  heaved, 
catching  a  flash  of  sun  on  its  dull  hide. 

Between  the  wheels  of  the  wagon  knelt  a  girl  in  a 
gown  of  faded  blue,  head  hidden  behind  a  sunbonnet. 
She  leaned  forward  in  the  shadow  of  the  wagon. 
Sandy  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  huddled  body  beyond  her. 
Grit  sat  on  his  haunches,  head  toward  the  road,  thrown 
back  at  each  bark.  Sandy  reached  the  ledge  first. 
The  girl  did  not  turn  her  head,  though  his  descent  was 
noisy.  He  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder,  telling 
himself  that  she  was  "just  a  kid." 


CASEY  19 

She  looked  up,  her  face  lined  where  tears  had  laned 
down  through  the  mask  of  dust.  Now  she  was  past 
crying.  Her  eyes  met  Sandy's  pitifully,  holding 
neither  surprise  nor  hope. 

"He's  dead."  She  seemed  to  be  stating  a  fact  long 
accepted. 

"He's  dead.  An'  he  made  me  jump.  You  come  too 
late,  mister." 

The  man  lay  stretched  out,  head  and  shoulders  hid- 
den, his  gaunt  body  dressed  in  jeans,  once  blue,  long 
since  washed  and  sun-faded  to  the  green  of  turquoise 
matrix.  The  boots  were  rusty,  patched.  The  wagon- 
bed,  toppling  sidewise,  had  crashed  down  on  his  chest. 
Rock  partly  supported  the  weight  of  it.  Sandy  picked 
up  a  gnarled  hand,  scarred,  calloused  and  shrunken, 
the  hand  of  an  old  prospector. 

"Yore  dad  ?"  he  asked,  kneeling  by  the  girl. 

"Yes."  She  stood  up,  slight  and  straight,  with 
limbs  and  body  just  curving  into  womanhood.  "The 
hawsses  was  tuckered  out,"  she  said,  "or  Dad  c'ud 
have  made  it.  They  didn't  have  no  strength  left,  'thout 
food  or  water.  The  damned  road  jest  slid  out  from 
under.  Dad  made  me  jump.  I  figgered  he  was  goin' 
to,  but  his  bad  leg  must  have  caught  in  the  brake.  We 
slid  over  like  water  slides  over  a  rock.  He  didn't  have 
a  hell-chance."  As  she  spoke  them  the  oaths  were 
merely  emphasis.  She  talked  as  had  her  father. 

Sandy  nodded. 

"Got  an  ax  with  the  outfit?"  he  asked.  Then  turn- 
ing to  Sam  as  the  girl  went  round  to  the  back  of  the 


20  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

fallen  wagon  and  fumbled  about  through  the  rear 
opening  of  the  canvas  tilt :  "Man's  alive,  Sam.  Caught 
a  flirt  of  the  pulse.  Have  to  pry  up  the  wagon.  Git 
that  bu'sted  end  of  the  tongue." 

The  girl  handed  an  ax  to  Sandy  mutely,  watching 
them  as  Sandy  pried  loose  the  part  of  the  tongue  still 
bolted  to  the  wagon,  getting  it  clear  of  the  horses. 

"Think  you  can  drag  out  yore  dad  by  the  laigs 
when  we  lift  the  body  of  the  wagon?"  he  asked  her. 
"May  not  be  able  to  hold  it  more'n  a  few  seconds. 
May  slip  on  us,  the  levers  is  pritty  short." 

She  stooped,  taking  hold  of  a  wrinkled  boot  in  each 
hand,  back  of  the  heel.  A  tear  splashed  down  on  one 
of  them  and  she  shook  the  salt  water  from  her  eyes 
impatiently  as  if  she  had  faced  tragedy  before  and 
knew  it  must  be  looked  at  calmly. 

The  two  men  adjusted  the  boulders  they  had  set  for 
fulcrums  and  shoved  down  on  the  stout  pieces  of  ash, 
their  muscles  bunching,  the  veins  standing  out  corded 
on  their  arms.  Grit  ran  from  one  to  the  other  with 
eager  little  whines,  sensing  what  was  being  attempted, 
eager  to  help.  The  wagon-bed  creaked,  lifted  a  little. 

"Now,"  grunted  Sandy,  "snake  him  out." 

The  girl  tugged,  stepping  backward,  her  pliant 
strength  equal  to  the  dead  drag  of  the  body.  Sandy, 
straining  down,  saw  a  white  beard  appear,  stained  with 
blood,  an  aged  seamed  face,  hollow  at  cheek  and  tem- 
ple, sparse  of  hair,  the  flesh  putty-colored  despite  its 
tan.  Grit  leaped  in  and  licked  the  quiet  features  as 
Sam  and  Sandy  eased  down  the  wagon. 


CASEY  21 

"Whisky,  Sam." 

The  girl  sat  cross-legged,  her  father's  head  in  her 
lap,  one  hand  smoothing  his  forehead  while  the  other 
felt  under  his  vest  and  shirt,  above  his  heart. 

"He  ain't  gone  yit,"  she  announced. 

The  old  miner's  teeth  were  tight  clenched,  but  there 
were  gaps  in  them  through  which  the  whisky  Sandy 
administered  trickled. 

"Daddy!    Daddy!" 

It  might  have  been  the  tender  agony  of  the  cry  to 
which  Patrick  Casey's  dulling  brain  responded,  send- 
ing the  message  of  his  will  along  the  nerves  to  trans- 
mit a  final  summons.  His  body  twitched,  he  choked, 
swallowed,  opened  gray  eyes,  filmy  with  death,  bright- 
ening with  intelligence  as  he  saw  his  daughter  bending 
over  him,  the  face  of  Sandy  above  her  shoulder.  The 
gray  eyes  interrogated  Sandy's  long  and  earnestly 
until  the  light  began  to  fade  out  of  them  and  the 
wrinkled  lids  shuttered  down. 

Another  swallow  of  the  raw  spirits  and  they  opened 
flutteringly  again.  The  lips  moved  soundlessly. 
Then,  while  one  hand  groped  waveringly  upward  to 
rest  upon  his  daughter's  head,  Sandy,  bending  low, 
caught  three  syllables,  repeated  over  and  over,  desper- 
ately, mere  ghosts  of  words,  taxing  cruelly  the  last 
breath  of  the  wheezing  lungs  beneath  the  battered  ribs, 
the  final  spurt  of  the  spirit. 

"Molly— mines!" 

"I'll  look  out  for  that,  pardner,"  said  Sandy. 

The  eyelids  fluttered,  the  old  hands  fell  away,  the 


22  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

jaw  relaxed,  serenity  came  to  the  lined  face,  and  no 
little  dignity.  For  the  first  time  the  girl  gave  way, 
lying  prone,  sobbing  out  her  grief  while  the  two  cow- 
men looked  aside.  The  bay  horse  began  to  groan  and 
writhe. 

"Got  to  kill  that  cavallo,"  said  Sam  in  a  whisper. 

"Wait  a  minute."  The  girl  had  quieted,  was  kneel- 
ing with  clasped  hands,  lips  moving  silently.  Prayer, 
such  as  it  was,  over,  she  rose,  her  fists  tight  closed, 
striving  to  control  her  quivering  chin — doing  it.  She 
looked  up  as  the  shadow  of  a  buzzard  was  flung 
against  the  cliff  by  the  slanting  sun. 

"We  got  to  bury  him,  'count  of  them  damn 
buzzards." 

"We'll  tend  to  that,"  said  Sandy.  "Ef  you-all  '11 
take  the  dawg  on  up  to  the  hawsses  .  .  ." 

"No!  I  helped  to  bury  Jim  Clancy,  out  in  the  des- 
ert, I'm  goin'  to  help  bury  Dad.  It's  goin'  to  be  lone- 
some out  here — "  She  twisted  her  mouth,  setting 
teeth  into  the  lower  lip  sharply  as  she  gazed  at  the 
desolate  cliffs,  the  birds  swinging  their  tireless,  expect- 
ant circles  in  the  throat  of  the  gorge. 

"Dad  allus  figgered  he'd  die  somewheres  in  the 
desert.  'Lowed  it  'ud  be  his  luck.  He  wanted  to  be 
put  within  the  sound  of  runnin'  water — he's  gone  so 
often  'thout  it.  But — "  She  shrugged  her  thin 
shoulders  resignedly,  the  inheritance  of  the  prospect- 
or's philosophy  strong  within  her. 

"See  here,  miss,"  said  Sandy,  while  Sam  crawled 
into  the  wagon  in  search  of  the  dead  miner's  pick  and 


CASEY  23 

shovel  that  now,  instead  of  uncovering  riches,  would 
dig  his  grave,  "how  old  air  you?" 

"Fifteen.  My  name's  Margaret — Molly  for  short — 
same  as  my  Ma.  She's  been  dead  for  twelve  years." 

"Well,  Miss  Molly,  suppose  you-all  come  on  to  the 
Three  Star  fo'  a  spell  with  my  two  pardners  an'  me? 
You  do  that  an5  mebbe  we  can  fix  yore  daddy's  idee 
about  runnin'  water.  We'd  come  back  an'  git  him  an' 
we'll  make  a  place  fo'  him  under  our  big  cottonwoods 
below  the  big  spring.  I  w'udn't  wonder  but  what  he 
c'ud  hear  the  water  gugglin'  plain  as  it  runs  down  the 
overflow  to  the  alfalfa  patches." 

Molly  Casey  gazed  at  him  with  such  a  sudden  glow 
of  gratitude  in  her  eyes  that  Sandy  felt  embarrassed. 
He  had  been  comforting  a  girl,  a  boyish  girl,  and  here 
a  woman  looked  at  him,  with  understanding. 

"Yo're  sure  a  white  man,"  she  said.  "I'll  git  even 
with  you  some  time  if  I  work  the  bones  of  my  fingers 
through  the  flesh  fo'  you.  Thanks  don't  amount  to  a 
damn  'thout  somethin'  back  of  'em.  I'll  come 
through." 

She  put  out  her  roughened  little  hand,  man-fashion, 
and  Sandy  took  it  as  Sam  emerged  from  the  wagon 
with  the  tools.  The  bay  mare  groaned  and  gave  a 
shrill  cry,  horribly  human.  Sam  drew  his  gun,  putting 
down  pick  and  shovel. 

"Got  any  water  you  c'ud  spare?"  asked  the  girl. 
Sandy  handed  her  his  canteen. 

"Use  it  all,"  he  said.  "Soon's  it's  dark,  it'll  cool 
off.  We'll  git  through  all  right." 


24  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

He  picked  up  the  tools  and  moved  toward  Sam  as 
the  bay  collapsed  to  the  merciful  bullet.  The  girl 
washed  away  as  best  she  could  the  stains  of  blood  and 
travel  from  the  dead  face  while  Sandy  sounded  with 
the  pick  for  soil  deep  enough  for  a  temporary  grave. 

The  body  would  have  to  lie  on  the  ledge  over  night, 
nothing  but  burial  could  save  it  from  marauding 
coyotes,  though  the  wagon  might  have  baffled  the 
buzzards.  The  two  set  to  work  digging  a  shallow 
trench  down  to  bedrock,  rolling  up  loose  boulders  for 
a  cairn.  The  whirring  chorus  of  the  cicadas  'drummed 
an  elfin  requiem.  Now  and  then  there  came  the  chink 
of  bit,  or  hoof  on  rock,  from  the  waiting  horses  in  the 
broken  road.  The  sun  was  low,  horizontal  rays  pierc- 
ing the  flood  of  violet  haze  in  the  canon.  Across  the 
gorge  the  cliff,  above  the  wash  of  shadow,  glowed 
saffron ;  a  light  wind  wailed  down  the  bore.  Lizards 
flirted  in  and  out  of  the  crevices  as  the  miner  was  laid 
in  his  temporary  grave,  the  girl  dry-eyed  again. 

She  had  brought  a  little  work  box  from  the  wagon, 
of  mahogany  studded  with  disks  of  pearl  in  brass 
mountings.  Out  of  this  she  produced  a  handkerchief 
of  soft  China  silk  brocade,  its  white  turned  yellow 
with  age.  This  she  spread  over  her  father's  features, 
showing  strangely  distinct  in  the  failing  light. 

"I  don't  want  the  dirt  pressin'  on  his  face,"  she  said. 

From  the  dead  man's  clothes  Sandy  and  Sam  had 
taken  the  few  personal  belongings,  from  the  inner 
pocket  of  the  vest  some  papers  that  Sandy  knew  for 
location  claims. 


CASEY  25 

"Want  to  take  some  duds  erlong  to  the  ranch?"  he 
asked  Molly.  "We  can  bring  in  the  rest  of  the  stuff 
later.  Got  to  shack  erlong,  it's  gittin'  dark.  Brought 
an  extry  hawss  with  us.  Can  you  ride  ?" 

"Some.     I  ain't  had  much  chance." 

"Don't  know  how  the  mare'll  stand  yore  skirt.  If 
she  won't  Pinto'll  pack  you/' 

"I'll  fix  that."  She  clambered  into  the  wagon. 
Before  she  came  out  with  her  bundle  they  piled  the 
cairn,  a  mask  of  broken  rim-rock  heavy  enough  to  foil 
the  scratching  of  coyotes. 

It  looked  to  Sandy  as  if  the  girl  had  changed  into 
a  boy.  The  slender  figure,  silhouetted  against  the 
afterglow,  softly  pulsing  masses  of  fiery  cloud  above 
the  top  of  the  mesa,  was  dressed  in  jean  overalls,  a 
wide-rimmed  hat  hiding  length  of  hair. 

"I  reckon  I  can  fool  that  hawss  of  yores  now,"  she 
said.  "I  gen'ally  dress  thisaway  'cept  when  we  expect 
to  go  nigh  the  settlements  or  a  ranch  where  we  aim  to 
visit.  We  was  makin'  for  the  Two-Bar-P  outfit, 
where  Grit  came  from  when  he  was  a  bit  of  a  pup.  I 
expected  that's  where  he  was  headin'  for  when  I  sent 
him  off  after  help,  but  you  come  instead." 

"I  was  wonderin'  how  he  come  to  make  the  ranch," 
said  Sandy.  "You  see  we-all  bought  the  Two-Bar-P, 
though  I  never  figgered  old  Samson  'ud  ever  own  a 
sheepdawg.  He  might  give  one  away  fast  enough." 

"Grit  was  sent  him  for  a  present  by  a  man  who  sum- 
mered at  the  ranch  an'  heerd  Samson  say  he  wanted 
a  dawg,"  said  the  girl.  "He  was  a  tenderfoot  when 


26  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

he  come,  an'  when  he  left,  'count  bein'  sick.  Samson 
didn't  want  to  kill  the  dawg  an'  didn't  want  to  keep 
him,  so  he  gave  him  to  Dad  an*  me  when  I  was  ten 
years  old.  Are  you  ready  to  start?" 

She  had  avoided  looking  toward  the  grave,  pur- 
posely Sandy  thought,  talking  to  bridge  over  the  last 
good-by,  the  chance  of  a  breakdown.  Suddenly  she 
pointed  down  the  cliff. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  cried  and  disappeared,  sliding 
and  leaping  down  like  a  goat,  reappearing  with  her 
hat  half  filled  with  crimson  silk-petaled  cactus  blooms, 
scattering  them  at  the  head  of  the  cairn. 

"Seemed  like  there  jest  had  to  be  flowers,"  she  said 
as,  with  Grit  nosing  close  to  his  mistress,  they  mounted 
to  the  road.  The  gray  mare  made  no  bother  and  soon 
they  were  riding  down  toward  the  strip  of  Bad  Lands. 
Sandy  let  the  collie  go  afoot  for  the  time. 

The  glory  of  the  range  departed,  the  cliffs  turned 
slate  color,  then  black,  while  a  host  of  stars  marshaled 
and  burned  without  flicker.  The  wind  moaned 
through  the  trough  of  the  canon  as  they  rode  out  on 
the  plain.  Up  somewhere  in  the  darkness  the  buz- 
zards came  circling  down,  to  settle  on  the  ledge  beside 
the  carcasses  of  the  two  horses. 

It  was  close  to  midnight  when  they  reached  the 
home  ranch,  riding  past  the  outbuildings,  the  bunk- 
house  of  the  men  where  a  light  twinkled,  the  cook 
shack,  the  corrals,  up  to  the  main  house.  There  they 
alighted.  All  about  cotton  woods  rustled  in  the  dark, 
the  air  was  sweet  and  cool,  not  far  from  frost.  Molly 


CASEY  27 

Casey  shivered  as  she  moved  stiffly  in  her  saddle. 
Sandy  lifted  her  from  the  saddle  and  carried  her  up 
the  steps,  across  the  porch,  kicking  open  the  door  of 
the  living-room  where  the  embers  of  a  fire  glowed. 
There  was  no  other  light  in  the  big  room,  but  there 
was  sufficient  to  show  the  great  form  of  Mormon, 
stowed  at  ease  in  a  chair,  asleep  and  snoring. 

Sam  struck  a  match  and  lit  a  lamp.  He  struck  Mor- 
mon mightily  between  his  shoulders. 

"Gawd!"  gasped  the  heavyweight  partner.  "I  been 
asleep.  But  there's  a  kittle  of  hot  water,  Sandy. 
Where's  the — what  in  time  are  you  totin'  ?  A  gel  or 
a  boy?" 

"This  is  Miss  Molly  Casey,"  said  Sandy  gravely, 
setting  down  the  girl.  "Miss  Casey,  this  is  Mr. 
Peters.  Mormon,  Miss  Molly  is  goin'  to  tie  up  to 
the  Three  Star  for  a  bit." 

Mormon,  a  little  sheepish  at  the  suddenly  developing 
age  of  the  girl  as  she  shook  hands  with  him,  recovered 
himself  and  beamed  at  her.  "Yo're  sure  welcome." 
he  said.  "Boss  hired  you?  Cowgirl  or  cook?" 

Sandy  noticed  the  girl's  lips  quiver  and  he  slipped 
an  arm  about  her  shoulders.  He  was  not  woman-shy 
with  this  girl  who  needed  help,  and  who  seemed  a  boy. 

"Don't  you  take  no  notice  of  him  an'  his  kiddin',"  he 
said.  "We'll  make  him  rustle  some  grub  fo'  all  of  us 
an'  then  we-all  '11  turn  in.  I'll  show  you  yore  room. 
Up  the  stairs  an*  the  last  door  on  the  right.  Here's 
some  matches.  There's  a  lamp  on  the  bureau  up 
there.  Give  you  a  call  when  supper's  ready." 


28  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

He  led  her  to  the  door  and  gave  her  a  friendly  little 
shove,  guessing  that  she  wanted  to  be  alone. 

"The  kid's  lost  her  father,  lost  most  everything  'cept 
her  dawg,"  he  said  to  Mormon.  "Thought  we  might 
adopt  her,  sort  of,  then  I  thought  mebbe  we'd  hire  her 
— for  mascot." 

"Lost  her  daddy?  An'  me  hornin'  in  an'  tryin'  to 
kid  her!  I  ain't  got  the  sense  of  a  drowned  gopher, 
sometimes,"  said  Mormon  contritely. 

"She's  game,  plumb  through,  ain't  she,  Sam? 
Stands  right  up  to  trouble?" 

"You  bet.  Mormon,  open  up  a  can  of  greengages, 
will  ye?  I  reckon  she's  got  a  sweet  tooth,  same  as  me." 

Molly  Casey  was  not  through  standing  up  to  trouble. 
They  coaxed  her  to  eat  and  she  managed  to  make  a 
meal  that  satisfied  them.  Then  she  got  up  to  go  to 
her  room,  with  Grit  nuzzling  close  to  her,  her  fingers 
in  his  ruff,  twisting  nervously  at  the  strands  of  hair. 

"Do  you  reckon,"  she  asked  the  three  partners,  "that 
Dad  knows  he  fooled  me  when  he  told  me  to  jump? 
If  I'd  known  he  c'udn't  git  clear  I'd  have  stuck — same 
as  he  would  if  I  was  caught.  Do  you  reckon  he  knows 
that — now  ?" 

"I'd  be  surprised  if  he  didn't,"  said  Sandy  gravely. 
"You  did  what  he  wanted,  anyway." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"If  I'd  been  on  the  outside,  he  w'udn't  have  jumped, 
no  matter  how  much  I  begged  him.  I  didn't  think  of 
the  brake.  Don't  seem  quite  square,  somehow,  way  I 
acted.  Good  night.  What  time  do  you-all  git  up?" 


CASEY  29 

"With  the  sun,  soon's  the  big  bell  rings,"  said 
Sandy.  "Good  night." 

She  looked  at  them  gravely  and  went  out. 

"Botherin'  about  playin'  square  in  jumpin',"  said 
Sandy.  "That  gel  is  square  on  all  twelve  eidges. 
Sam,  slide  out  an'  muzzle  that  bell.  She'll  likely  cry 
herself  to  sleep  after  a  bit  but  she'll  need  all  the  sleep 
she  can  git.  No  sense  in  wakin'  her  up  at  sun-up." 

"How'd  you  come  to  know  so  much  about  gels?" 
asked  Mormon. 

"Me  ?  I  don't  know  the  first  thing  about  'em,"  pro- 
tested Sandy. 

"No  more'n  any  man,"  put  in  Sam.  "  'Cept  it's 
Mormon.  He's  sure  had  the  experience." 

"Experience,"  said  Mormon,  with  a  yawn,  "may 
teach  a  man  somethin'  about  mules  but  not  wimmen. 
Woman  is  like  the  climate  of  the  state  of  Kansas, 
where  I  was  born.  Thirty-four  below  at  times  and  as 
high  as  one-sixteen  above.  Blowin'  hot  an'  cold, 
rangin'  from  a  balmy  breeze  through  a  rain  shower  or 
a  thunder-storm,  up  to  a  snortin'  tornado.  Average 
number  of  workin'  days,  about  one  hundred  an'  fifty. 
Them's  statistics.  It  ain't  so  hard  to  set  down  what 
a  woman's  done  at  the  end  of  a  year,  if  you  got  a 
good  mem'ry,  but  tryin'  to  guess  what  she  is  goin'  to 
do  has  got  the  weather  man  backed  off  inter  a  corner 
an'  squealin'  for  help.  They  ain't  all  like  Kansas. 
My  first  resembled  it,  the  second  was  sorter  tropic — 
she  run  off  with  a  rainmaker  an'  I  hear  she's  been 
divorced  three  times  since  then.  Mebbe  that's  an 


30  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

exaggeration.  My  third  must  have  been  born  some- 
ways  nigh  the  no'th  pole.  Wen  she  got  mad  she'd 
freeze  the  blood  in  yore  veins. 

"No,  sir,  that  feller  in  the  po'try  who  says,  'I  learned 
about  wimmen  from  'er/  was  braggin'.  Now,  this  gel 
of  Casey's  'pears  like  what  her  dad  'ud  call  a  good 
prospect,  but  you  can't  tell.  Fool's  gold  is  bright 
enough  but  you  can't  change  it  to  the  real  stuff  no 
matter  how  you  polish  it." 

"Ever  see  the  sour-milk  batter  Pedro  fixes  fo'  hot 
cakes?"  asked  Sam. 

"Sure  I  have.  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 
demanded  Mormon. 

"That's  what  you've  got  sloppin'  inside  of  yore 
haid  'stead  of  brains.  Yore  disposition  concernin' 
wimmen  is  gen'ally  soured.  You  'mind  me  of  the 
man  from  New  Jersey  who  come  out  west  to  buy  a 
ranch.  A  hawss  throwed  him  five  times  hand-runnin'. 
He  ropes  a  steer  that  happens  to  run  into  the  bum  loop 
he  was  swingin'  an'  it  snakes  him  out'n  the  saddle.  A 
pesky  cow  chases  him  when  he  was  afoot,  a  couple 
calves  gits  a  rope  twisted  round  his  stummick  an' 
lastly  a  mule  kicks  him  into  a  bunch  of  cactus. 
Whereupon  he  remarks,  *I  don't  figger  I  was  cal- 
culated for  runnin'  a  cattle  ranch/  sells  out  an'  goes 
back  to  herdin'  muskeeters  in  New  Jersey. 

"Mormon,  you  warn't  calculated  to  handle  wimmen. 
This  liT  gel  is  game  as  they  make  'em,  an'  I  reckon 
she's  right  sweet  if  she  on'y  gits  a  chance.  Leastwise, 
I  see  several  signs  of  pay  dirt  this  afternoon  an' 


CASEY  31 

evenin'  as  I  reckon  Sandy  done  the  same.  She's  been 
trailin'  her  dad  all  over  hell  an'  creation,  talkin'  like 
him,  swearin'  like  him,  actin'  like  him.  Never  see 
nothin'  different.  All  she  needs  is  a  chance." 

"What's  the  idee  in  pickin'  on  me?"  asked  Mor- 
mon aggrievedly.  "She's  as  welcome  as  grass  in 
spring.  They  ain't  no  one  got  a  bigger  heart  than  me 
fo'  kids." 

"No  one  got  a  bigger  heart,  mebbe,"  said  Sam 
caustically.  "Nor  none  a  smaller  brain.  All  engine 
an'  no  gasoline  in  the  tank!" 

"She's  an  orphan,"  went  on  Sandy.  "She  ain't  got 
a  cent  that  I  know  of.  The  claims  her  old  dad  men- 
tioned ain't  no  good  because,  in  the  first  place,  they'd 
have  been  worked  if  they  was;  second  place,  they're 
over  to  Dynamite  an'  the  sharps  say  Dynamite's  a 
flivver.  All  she  has  in  sight  is  the  dawg.  Some 
dawg!  Comes  in  from  the  desert  an'  takes  us  out  to 
her  an'  Pat  Casey — him  dyin'.  Ef  it  hadn't  been  fo' 
the  dawg,  she'd  have  stayed  there,  to  my  notion.  Got 
some  sort  of  idee  she'd  deserted  ship  ef  she  hadn't 
stuck  till  it  was  too  late  fo'  her  to  crawl  out  of  that 
slit  in  the  mesa.  She's  fifteen  an'  she's  got  sense.  I 
figger  we  better  turn  in  right  now  an'  hold  a  pow-wow 
with  the  gel  ter-morrer." 

"Second  the  motion,"  said  Sam. 

"Third  it,"  said  Mormon. 

And  the  Three  Musketeers  of  the  Range  went  off 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER  III 

MOLLY 

MOLLY  came  down  next  morning  in  the  faded 
blue  gingham.  Sandy  marked  how  worn  it  was 
and  marked  an  item  in  his  mind — clothes.  He  smiled 
at  her  with  the  sudden  showing  of  his  sound  white 
teeth  that  made  many  friends.  She  was  much  too 
young,  too  frank,  too  like  a  boy  to  affect  him  with 
any  of  his  woman-shyness.  He  did  not  realize  how 
close  she  was  to  womanhood,  seeing  only  how  much 
she  must  have  missed  of  real  girlhood. 

Molly  had  a  snubby  nose,  a  wide  mouth,  Irish  eyes 
of  blue  that  were  far  apart  and  crystal  dear,  freckles 
and  a  lot  of  brown  hair  that  she  wore  in  a  long  braid 
wound  twice  about  her  well-shaped  head.  She  was  a 
combination  of  curves  and  angles,  of  well-rounded 
neck  and  arms  and  legs  with  collar-bones  and  hips 
over-apparent,  immature  but  not  awkward. 

None  of  the  three  partners  observed  these  things  in 
detail.  All  of  them  noted  that  her  eyes  were  steady, 
friendly,  trusting,  and  that  when  she  smiled  at  them 
it  was  like  the  flash  of  water  in  a  tree-shady  pond, 
when  a  trout  leaps.  Grit,  entering  with  her,  divided 
his  attentions  among  the  men,  shoving  a  moist  nose 
at  last  into  Sandy's  palm  and  lying  down  obedient, 

32 


MOLLY  33 

his  tail  thumping  amicably,  as  Sandy  examined  the 
tape  protectors. 

"You  lie  round  the  ranch  for  a  day  or  so/'  he  told 
the  collie,  "an'  you'll  be  as  good  as  new." 

"Fo*  a  sheepdawg,"  said  Mormon,  "he  sure  shapes 
fine." 

Molly's  eyes  flashed.  "He  don't  know  he's  a  sheep- 
dawg," she  protested.  "He's  never  even  seen  one, 
'less  it  was  a  mountain  sheep,  'way  up  against  the  sky- 
line. Samson  liked  him.  Don't  you  like  him?" 

"I  like  him  fine,"  Mormon  answered  hurriedly. 
"Fine!" 

"Ef  you-all  didn't,  we  c'ud  shack  on  somewheres. 
I  c'ud  git  work  down  to  the  settlemints,  I  reckon.  I 
don't  aim  to  put  you  out  any.  I've  been  thinkin' 
erbout  that.  'Less  you  should  happen  to  want  a  wo- 
man to  run  the  house.  I  don't  know  much  about 
housekeepin'  but  I  c'ud  1'arn.  It's  a  woman's  job, 
chasm'  dirt.  I  can  cook — some.  Dad  used  to  say  my 
camp-bread  an'  biscuits  was  fine.  I  c'ud  earn  what 
I  eat,  I  reckon.  An'  what  Grit  'ud  eat.  We  don't  aim 
to  stay  unless  we  pay — someway." 

There  was  a  touch  of  fire  to  her  independence,  a 
chip  on  the  shoulder  of  her  pride  the  three  partners 
recognized  and  respected. 

"See  here,  Molly  Casey," — Sandy  used  exactly  the 
same  tone  and  manner  he  would  have  taken  with  a 
boy — "that's  yore  way  of  lookin'  at  it.  Then  there's 
our  side.  You  figger  yore  dad  was  a  pritty  good 
miner,  I  reckon?" 


34  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"He  sure  knew  rock.  Every  one  'lowed  that.  They 
was  always  more'n  one  wantin'  to  grubstake  him  but 
*  he'd  never  take  it.  Figgered  he  didn't  want  to  split 
any  strike  he  might  make  an'  figgered  he  w'udn't  take 
no  man's  money  'less  he  was  dead  sure  of  payin'  him 
back.  Dad  was  a  good  miner." 

"All  right.  Now,  yore  dad  believes  in  them  claims. 
The  last  two  words  he  says  was  'Molly*  and  'mines.' 
I  give  him  my  word  then  and  there,  like  he  would 
have  to  me,  to  watch  out  for  yore  interests.  My  word 
is  my  pardners'  word.  I'm  willin'  to  gamble  those 
claims  of  his'll  pan  out  some  day.  Until  they  do,  ef 
you-all  '11  stay  on  at  the  Three  Star,  stop  Mormon 
stompin'  in  from  the  corral  with  dirty  boots,  ride  herd 
on  Sam  an*  me  the  same  way,  mebbe  cook  us  up  some 
of  them  biscuits  once  in  a  while,  why,  it'll  be  fine! 
Then  there's  yore  schoolin'.  Yore  dad  'ud  wish  you 
to  have  that.  I  don't  suppose  you've  had  a  heap.  An* 
you  sabe,  Molly,  that  you  swear  mo'  often  than  a  gel 
usually  swears." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "But  I  don't  cuss  when 
I  say  'em.  An'  I  don't  use  the  worst  ones.  Dad 
w'udn't  let  me.  I  can  read  an'  write,  spell  an'  cipher 
some.  But  Dad  needed  me  more'n  I  needed  learnin'." 

"But  you  got  to  have  it,"  said  Mormon  earnestly. 
"S'pose  them  claims  pan  out  way  rich  and  you  git  all- 
fired  wealthy?  Bein'  a  gel,  you  sabe  clothes,  diamonds, 
silks,  satins  an'  feather  fuss.  You'll  want  to  learn  the 
pianner.  You'll  want  to  know  what  to  git  an'  how  to 
wear  it.  Won't  want  folks  laffin'  at  you  like  they 


MOLLY  35 

laffed  at  Sam,  time  he  won  fo'  hundred  dollars  shootin' 
craps  an'  went  to  Galveston  where  a  smart  Alec  of  a 
clerk  sells  him  a  spiketail  coat,  wash  vest  an'  black 
pants  with  braid  on  the  seams. 

"Sam,  he  don't  know  how  to  wear  'em,  or  when. 
His  laigs  sure  looked  prominent  in  them  braided  pants. 
Warn't  any  side  pockets  in  'em,  neither,  fo'  him  to 
hide  his  hands.  Sam's  laigs  got  warped  when  he  was 
young,  lyin'  out  nights  in  the  rain  'thout  a  tarp'.  That 
suit  set  back  Sam  a  heap  of  money  an'  it  ain't  no  mo' 
use  to  him  than  an  extry  shell  to  a  terrapin." 

He  grinned  at  Molly  with  his  face  creased  into 
good  humor  that  could  not  be  resisted.  She  laughed 
as  Sam  joined  in,  but  the  determination  of  her  rounded 
chin  returned  after  the  merriment  had  passed. 

"If  you  did  that — took  my  Daddy's  place,"  she  said, 
"why,  we'd  be  pardners,  same  as  him  an*  me  was. 
When  the  claims  pan  out,  half  of  it'll  have  to  be  yores. 
I  won't  stay  no  other  way." 

The  glances  of  the  three  partners  exchanged  a  mu- 
tual conclusion,  a  mutual  approval.  •,< 

"That  goes,"  said  Sandy,  putting  out  his  hand. 
"Fo'  all  three  of  us.  When  the  mines  are  payin'  divi- 
dends, we  split,  half  on  'count  of  the  Three  Star,  half 
to  you.  Providin'  you  fall  in  line  with  the  eddication, 
so's  to  do  yore  dad,  yo'se'f  an'  us,  yore  pardners,  due 
credit  when  the  money  starts  comin'  in.  Sabe?" 

"I  don't  sabe  the  eddication  part  of  it,"  she 
answered.  "Jest  what  does  that  mean?  I  don't  want 
to  go  to  school  with  a  lot  of  kids  who'll  laf  at  me." 


36  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"You  don't  have  to.  As  pardners,"  Sandy  went  on 
earnestly,  "I  don't  mind  tellin'  you  that  the  Three  Bar 
has  put  all  its  chips  into  the  kitty  an',  while  we  figger 
sure  to  win,  we  can't  cash  in  any  till  the  increase  of 
the  herds  starts  to  make  a  showin'.  Not  till  after  the 
fall  round-up,  anyway.  So  yore  eddication'll  have 
to  be  put  off  a  bit.  Meantime  you'll  learn  to  ride  an' 
rope  an'  mebbe  break  a  colt  or  two,  between  meals  an' 
ridin'  herd  on  the  dirt.  When  you  start  in,  it'll  be  at 
one  of  them  schools  in  the  East  where  they  make  a 
speshulty  of  western  heiresses.  How's  that  sound?" 

"Sounds  fine.  On'y,  you've  picked  up  Dad's  hand 
to  gamble  with.  Mebbe  it  ain't  yore  game,  nor  the  one 
you'd  choose  to  play  if  it  wasn't  forced  on  you." 

"Sister,"  said  Sam,  "yo're  skinnin'  yore  hides  too 
close.  Sandy  'ud  gamble  on  which  way  a  horn-toad' 11 
spit.  It's  meat  an'  drink  to  him.  We  won  this  ranch 
on  a  gamble — him  playin'.  He  gambles  as  he  breathes. 
An'  whatever  hand  he  plays,  me  an'  Mormon  backs. 
Why,  if  we  win  on  this  minin'  deal,  we're  way  ahead 
of  the  game,  seein'  we  don't  put  up  anythin'  in  cold 
collateral.  It's  a  sure-fire  cinch." 

"Sam  says  it,"  backed  Sandy.    "One  good  gamble!" 

Molly's  eyes  had  lightened  for  a  moment,  losing 
their  gloom  of  grief  they  had  held  since  the  shadow  of 
the  circling  buzzards  in  the  gorge  had  darkened  them. 
She  fumbled  at  the  waistband  of  her  one-piece  gown, 
working  at  it  with  her  fingers,  producing  a  golden 
eagle  which  she  handed  to  Sandy. 

"That's  my  luck-piece,"  she  said.     "Dad  give  it  to 


MOLLY  37 

me  one  time  he  cleaned  up  good  on  a  placer  claim. 
Nex'  time  you  gamble,  will  you  play  that — for  me? 
Half  an'  half  on  the  winnin's.  I  sure  need  some 
clothes." 

The  glint  of  the  born  gambler's  superstition  showed 
in  Sandy's  eyes  as  he  took  the  ten  dollars. 

"I  sure  will  do  that,"  he  said.  "An*  mighty  soon. 
Now  then,  talk's  over,  all  agreed.  Sam  an'  me  has 
got  some  work  to  do  outside.  Won't  be  back  much 
before  sun-down.  Mormon,  he's  goin'  to  be  middlin' 
busy,  too.  Molly,  you  jest  acquaint  yorese'f  with  the 
Three  Star.  Riders  won't  be  back  till  dark.  No  one 
about  but  Mormon,  Pedro  the  cook,  an'  Joe.  Rest  up 
all  you  can.  I'm  goin5  to  bring  yore  dad  in  to  runnin' 
water." 

Tears  welled  in  Molly's  eyes  as  she  thanked  him. 
Again  Sandy  saw  the  girlish  frankness  change  to  the 
gratefulness  of  a  woman's  spirit,  looking  out  at  him 
between  her  lids.  It  made  him  a  little  uneasy.  The 
men  went  out  together,  walking  toward  the  corral. 

"Sam  an'  me's  goin'  to  bring  in  what's  left  of  Pat 
Casey,  Mormon.  Wagon's  kindlin',  harness  is  plumb 
rotten.  Ain't  much  to  bring  'cept  him,  I  reckon. 
We'll  take  the  buckboard,  with  a  tarp'  to  stow  him 
under.  Up  to  you  to  knock  together  a  coffin  an' 
dig  a  grave  under  the  cottonwoods  an*  below  the 
spring.  Right  where  that  liT  knoll  makes  the  over- 
flow curve  'ud  be  a  good  spot.  Use  up  them  extry 
boards  we  got  for  the  bunk-house.  Git  Joe  to  help 
you.  No  sense  in  lettin'  the  gel  see  you,  of  course." 


38  RIMROCK  TRAIL^ 

"Nice  occupation  fo'  a  sunny  day,"  grumbled  Mor- 
mon, but,  as  the  buckboard  drove  off,  he  was  busy 
planing  boards  in  the  blacksmith's  shop,  with  the  door 
closed  against  intrusion. 

Mid-afternoon  found  him  with  the  coffin  completed. 
He  rounded  up  the  half-breed  to  help  him  dig  the 
grave,  first  locating  Molly  in  a  hammock  he  had  slung 
for  her  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  by  the  cistern.  He 
had  furnished  her  with  his  pet  literature,  an  enormous 
mail-order  catalogue  from  a  Chicago  firm.  It  was  on 
the  ground,  the  breeze  ruffling  the  illustrated  pages, 
lifting  some  stray  wisps  of  hair  on  the  girl's  neck  as 
she  lay,  fast  asleep,  relaxed  in  the  wide  canvas  ham- 
mock, her  face  checkered  by  the  shifting  leaves  be- 
tween her  and  the  sun. 

Mormon  could  move  as  softly  as  a  cat,  for  all  his 
bulk.  There  was  turf  about  the  cistern,  he  had  made 
no  sound  arriving,  but  he  tiptoed  off,  his  kindly  mouth 
rounded  into  an  O  of  silence,  his  weather  crinkled 
eyes  half-closed. 

"She's  jest  a  baby,"  he  said,  half  aloud,  as  he  passed 
beyond  the  trees  to  where  Joe  waited  with  pick  and 
spade. 

The  soil  was  soft  and  clear  from  stone.  An  hour 
sufficed  to  sink  a  shaft  for  Pat  Casey's  last  bed.  Mor- 
mon carefully  adjusted  the  headboard  he  had  fash- 
ioned from  a  thick  plank,  to  be  carved  later  when  the 
lettering  was  decided  upon.  This  done  he  buckled  on 
the  belt  he  had  discarded,  from  which  his  holster  and 
revolver  swung.  Sandy  carried  two  guns,  his  partners 


MOLLY  39 

one,  habits  of  earlier,  more  stirring  days,  toting  them 
as  inevitably  as  they  wore  spurs,  though  there  was 
little  occasion  to  use  them  on  the  Three  Star,  save  to 
put  a  hurt  animal  out  of  misery,  or  kill  a  rattlesnake. 

Moisture  streamed  from  Mormon's  face,  patched 
his  clothes  as  the  heat  and  his  exertions  temporarily 
melted  some  of  his  superfluous  adiposity.  Joe,  his 
mahogany  face  stolid  as  a  wooden  carving,  rolled  a 
cigarette. 

"I  sure  hate  to  see  a  nameless  grave/'  said  Mormon. 

"Si,  Senor,"  Joe's  amiability  agreed. 

"You  go  git  a  dipper.  I'm  drier'n  Dry  Crick. 
Fetch  it  full  from  the  spring."  The  half-breed  ambled 
off.  Mormon  wiped  his  face  with  his  bandanna.  Sud- 
denly his  big  body  stiffened.  He  heard  Molly's  voice 
from  the  cistern,  frightened,  then  storming  in  anger. 
Mormon  ran  at  a  sprinter's  gait  from  the  cottonwoods, 
along  a  side  of  the  corral,  through  the  trees  bordering 
the  cistern.  The  girl  was  out  of  the  hammock,  facing 
a  man  in  riding  breeches  and  puttees,  his  face  con- 
cealed for  the  moment  by  his  hands.  A  sleeve  of  the 
girl's  frock  was  torn  away,  the  outworn  fabric  in 
streamers.  The  man's  hands  came  down  and  Mor- 
mon recognized  him  for  Jim  Plimsoll,  owner  of  the 
Good  Luck  Pool  Parlors,  in  the  little  cattle  town  of 
Hereford,  where  faro,  roulette,  chuckaluck  and  craps 
were  played  in  the  back  room,  owner  also  of  a  near-by 
horse  ranch.  There  was  blood  on  his  face,  the  marks 
of  finger  nails. 

Plimsoll  jumped  for  the  girl,  caught  her  by  one  arm 


40  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

roughly.  She  struggled  fiercely,  silently,  striking  at 
him  with  her  free  fist.  Mormon's  gun  flashed  from 
its  sheath  as  he  shouted  at  the  man.  Plimsoll  wheeled, 
releasing  Molly.  His  dark  face  was  livid  with  rage, 
a  pistol  gleamed  as  he  plucked  it  from  beneath  the 
waistband  of  his  riding  breeches.  The  turf  spatted 
between  his  feet  as  Mormon  fired. 

"Got  the  drop  on  ye,  Jim!  Nex'  shot'll  be  higher. 
Shove  that  gun  back.  Now  then,"  as  Plimsoll  sullenly 
obeyed,  "what  in  hell  do  you  figger  yo're  doin'?" 
Mormon's  jovial  face  was  tense,  his  voice  stern  and 
cold,  he  stood  crouched  forward  a  little  from  the  hips, 
legs  apart,  his  gun  a  thing  of  menace  that  seemed  to 
be  alive,  snaky. 

"Keep  still,"  he  ordered,  walking  toward  the  pair, 
his  gun  covering  Plimsoll,  the  cheery  blue  of  his  eyes 
changed  to  the  color  of  ice  in  the  shade,  the  pupils 
mere  pin-pricks.  Molly  glanced  at  him  once,  fingers 
caressing  her  bruised  arm. 

"He  kissed  me  while  I  was  asleep,  the  damned 
skunk!"  she  flared.  "I'd  sooner  hev  rattlesnake-pizen 
on  my  lips!"  She  stopped  rubbing  the  arm  to  scrub 
fiercely  at  her  mouth  with  the  back  of  her  hand. 

"It  ain't  the  first  time  I've  kissed  you/'  said  Plim- 
soll. "Yore  dad  didn't  stop  me  from  doin'  it.  I  didn't 
notice  you  scratching  like  a  wildcat  either.  Where's 
your  dad?  And  where  do  you  come  in  on  this  deal 
between  old  friends?"  he  demanded  of  Mormon. 

"Her  dad's  dead,"  said  Mormon  simply.  "Molly  is 
stayin'  fo'  a  spell  at  the  Three  Star.  Sandy  Bourke, 


MOLLY  41 

Sam  Manning  an'  me  is  lookin'  out  fo'  her,  an'  we 
aim  to  do  a  good  job  of  it.  Sabe?" 

Plimsoirs  thin-lipped  mouth  sneered  with  his  eyes. 

"Gone  in  for  baby-farming,  have  you,  or  robbing 
the  cradle?  Who's  playing  the  king  in  this  deal?  I 
The  leer  suddenly  vanished  from  his  face, 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  licked  his  lips.  Mormon's  gun 
was  slowly  coming  up  level  with  his  heart,  steady  as 
Mormon's  gaze,  finger  compressing  the  trigger. 

"The  law  reckons  you  a  man — so  fur,"  said  Mor- 
mon. "Yore  pals  'ud  pack  a  jury  to  hang  me  fo' 
shootin'  the  dirty  heart  out  of  you,  but — ef  you  ever 
let  out  a  foul  word  or  a  look  about  that  gel,  I'll  take  my 
chance  of  their  bein'  enough  white  men  round  here  to 
'quit  me.  There  ought  to  be  a  bounty  on  yore  scalp 
an'  ears.  You  hear  me,  Jim  Plimsoll,  I'm  talkin' 
straight.  Now  git,  head  yore  hawss  fo'  the  short  trail 
to  Hereford  an'  keep  travelin'.  Pronto!" 

Plimsoll's  pony  was  standing  under  the  trees  and 
the  gambler  turned  and,  with  an  attempted  laugh, 
swaggered  toward  it. 

The  threat  to  his  personal  safety,  his  desire  to  fling 
a  sneer  at  Mormon,  seemed  to  have  halted  any  cor- 
relation of  the  statement  concerning  the  death  of  the 
girl's  father  until  now. 

"If  that's  true  about  your  dad,"  he  said,  "I'm  sorry. 
How  did  he  die?" 

Sensing  the  hypocrisy  of  the  shift  to  sympathy,  the 
girl  took  a  step  forward.  Mormon's  pupils  contracted 
again ;  his  finger  itched  to  press  the  trigger  it  touched. 


42  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"It's  none  of  yore  business,"  said  the  girl.     "You 

git.- 

Plimsoirs  eyes  shifted  to  Mormon's  big  body,  stif- 
fening to  the  crouch  that  prefaced  shooting.  He 
faced  toward  the  trees  again,  flinging  his  last  words 
over  his  shoulder. 

"None  of  my  business?  I  don't  agree  with  you 
there,  you  little  hell-weasel.  Your  father  and  me  had 
more  than  one  deal  together.  You  and  I  may  have  to 
do  business  together  yet,  Molly  mine !" 

Molly's  teeth  showed  between  her  parted  lips,  her 
fingers  were  hooked.  Mormon  anticipated  her  indig- 
nant leap.  His  gun  spurted  fire,  the  expensive  Stet- 
son broadrim  seemed  lifted  from  Plimsoll's  hair  by 
an  invisible  hand.  With  the  report  it  sailed  forward, 
side-slipped,  landed  on  its  rim,  perforated  by  a  steel- 
nosed  thirty-eight  caliber  bullet. 

"I  give  you  last  warnin',"  roared  Mormon. 

Plimsoll  sprang  ahead  like  a  racer  at  the  starter's 
shot,  snatched  at  his  hat,  missed  it,  let  it  lie  as  he  ran 
on  to  his  horse,  mounted  and  went  galloping  off. 
Mormon  bolstered  his  gun  and  swung  about  to  Molly, 
standing  with  crimson  cheeks,  blazing  eyes  and  a 
young  bosom  turbulent  with  emotions. 

"I  wisht  you'd  killed  him.  I  wisht  you'd  killed 
him!"  she  cried.  "I  wisht  I  had  a  gun — or  a  knife! 
I  hate  him — hate  him — hate  him!  When  he  says  he 
was  ever  in  a  deal  with  Dad,  he  lies.  Dad  stood  for 
him  and  that  was  all.  He  purtended  to  be  awful 
strong  for  Dad,  purtended  to  be  fond  of  me,  jest  to 


MOLLY  43 

swarm  'round  Dad,  for  some  reason.  Brought  me  a 
doll  once.  I  was  thirteen.  What  in  hell  did  I  want 
with  a  doll?"  she  panted.  "I  burned  the  damn  thing 
that  night  in  the  fire.  He  kissed  me  an'  Dad  seemed 
to  think  I  owed  it  him  for  the  doll.  I  nigh  bit  my  lip 
off  afterward.  I  wisht  yore  first  shot  had  been  higher, 
or  yore  second  lower,  Peters." 

"Call  me  Uncle  Mormon,  Molly.  I  had  all  I  c'ud 
do  not  to  make  it  plumb  center,  liT  gel,  but  the  jury VI 
ring  in  a  cold  deck  on  me  if  I  had.  He's  sure  some 
snake.  But  we'll  take  care  of  Jim  Plimsoll,  yore  Uncle 
Mormon,  with  Sam  an'  Sandy." 

Patting  Molly's  shoulder,  Mormon  smiled  at  her 
with  his  irresistible  grin,  and  she  reflected  it  faintly 
as  she  tucked  in  the  remnants  of  her  torn  sleeve. 

"That's  the  on'y  dress  I  got  till  Sandy  Bourke  wins 
me  some  money,"  she  said.  "You  sure  are  quick, 
Uncle  Mormon,  when  you  git  inter  action.  An'  you 
can  shoot  some." 

"I  reckon  I  coil  up  tight,  between  times,  like  a 
spring.  Used  to  be  pritty  light  an'  limber  on  my  feet 
oncet  As  for  shootin',  I  wish  Sandy  'ud  been  here. 
He'd  have  shot  both  the  heels  off  that  fo'flusher,  right 
an'  left,  'thout  you  ever  see  his  hands  move.  I  ain't 
so  bad,  Sam's  better,  but  we  had  to  throw  a  lot  of  lead 
in  practise.  Sandy  shoots  like  he  walks  or  breathes. 
It  comes  natcherul  to  him,  like  Sam's  ear  fo'  music. 
I've  allus  'lowed  Sandy  must  hev  cut  his  teeth  on  a 
cartridge." 

His  arm  around  her  shoulder,  purposely  chatting 


44  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

away,  Mormon  led  Molly  toward  the  ranch-house, 
waving  off  the  half-breed  who  came  toward  them,  his 
dipper  of  the  spring  water  half  emptied  in  the  excite- 
ment. Plimsoll's  horse  was  stirring  up  a  dust-cloud 
on  the  way  to  Hereford,  other  puffs,  far-away  toward 
the  range,  proclaimed  that  the  buckboard  was  on  its 
way  with  its  funeral  freight. 

The  body  of  the  old  prospector  was  lowered  into 
the  grave  with  the  last  of  the  daylight.  The  raw 
scar  of  the  grave  was  covered  with  turfs  Mormon  or- 
dered cut  by  the  half-breed.  Molly  Casey  walked 
away  alone,  her  head  high,  the  corner  of  her  lower 
lip  caught  under  her  teeth,  eyes  winking  back  the  tears. 
It  was  the  headboard  that  had  forced  her  struggle 
for  composure.  Mormon  had  marked  on  it,  with  the 
heavy  lead  of  a  carpenter's  pencil. 

PATRICK  CASEY 

lies  here 

where  the  grass  grows 

and  the  water  runs.     He 

looked  for  gold  in  the  desert 

and  found  death. 

Buried  June  10, 

1920 

"Ef  that  suits  you,"  he  told  Molly,  "they's  a  chap 
over  to  Hereford  who's  a  wolf  on  carvin'.  My  let- 
terin's  punk.  When  yore  mines  pay  you  c'ud  have 
it  in  stone/' 

"You-all  are  awful  good  to  me,"  was  all  she  could 
trust  herself  to  say.  Each  of  the  Three  Musketeers 


MOLLY  45 

of  the  Range  felt  a  tug  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and 
comfort  her.  Instead  they  looked  at  one  another,  as 
men  of  their  breed  do.  Sam  pulled  at  his  mustache. 
Mormon  rubbed  the  top  of  his  bald  head  and  Sandy 
rolled  a  cigarette  and  smoked  it  silently. 

Molly  ate  no  supper  that  night.  Before  dawn  Sandy 
thought  he  heard  the  door  of  her  room  open  and  soft 
footfalls  stealing  down  the  stairs.  When  he  went 
later  to  the  spring  he  found  the  grave  covered  with  the 
wild  blooms  that  the  girl  had  picked  in  the  dewy  dawn. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN 

IT  WAS  a  week  after  Plimsoll's  dismissal  from  the 
Three  Star  premises,  that  one  of  the  riders,  coming 
back  from  Hereford  with  the  mail,  brought  rumors  of 
a  new  strike  at  Dynamite.  Neither  of  the  partners 
paid  much  attention  to  a  report  so  often  revived  by 
rumor  and  as  swiftly  dying  out  again.  But  the  man 
said  that  Plimsoll  had  stated  that  he  expected  to  go 
over  to  the  mining  camp  in  the  interests  of  claims 
located  by  Patrick  Casey  in  which  he  had  a  half- 
interest,  by  reason  of  having  grubstaked  the  prospector. 
"There's  the  thorn  under  that  saddle,"  said  Sandy 
to  Mormon.  "That's  what  Jim  Plimsoll  meant  by  his 
'deal.'  I  don't  believe  he'd  stir  up  things  unless  he  was 
fairly  sure  there  was  something  doin'  oveh  to  Dyna- 
mite. He  may  be  wrong  but  he  usually  tries  to  bet 
safe." 
.  "Molly's  father  located  Dynamite,  didn't  he?" 

"So  she  tells  me.  Hopeful,  as  he  called  it.  Seems 
he  picked  up  some  rich  float.  This  float  was  where  a 
dyke  of  porphyry  comes  up  to  the  surface  an*  got 
weathered  away  down  to  the  pay  ore.  Leastwise, 
this  was  her  dad's  theory.  He  told  her  everything  he 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  47 

thought  as  they  shacked  erlong  together,  I  reckon,  an' 
she  remembers  it.  He  figgers  this  sylvanite  lies  under 
this  porphyry  reef,  sabe?  Porphyry  snakes  under- 
ground, sometimes  fifty  feet  thick,  sometimes  twice 
that,  an'  hard  as  steel.  Matter  of  luck  where  you  hit 
it  how  fur  you  have  to  go.  Cost  too  much  time  an' 
labor  an'  money  for  the  crowd  that  made  up  the  rush 
to  stay  with  it,  'less  some  one  of  them  hits  it  at  grass 
roots  an'  stahts  a  real  boom  atop  of  the  rush.  They 
don't  an'  Hopeful  becomes  Hopeless.  Me,  I  got  fo'- 
five  chances  to  grubstake  in  that  time,  but  I'm  broke. 
I  reckon  Casey's  claims,  which  is  now  Molly's  claims, 
is  the  pick  of  the  camp.  Not  much  doubt,  from  what 
I  pick  up,  that  he  was  sure  a  good  miner.  One  of  the 
ol'  Desert  Rats  that  does  the  locatin'  fo'  some  one 
else  to  git  the  money. 

"  Molly  ses  her  dad  never  grubstaked.  She  don't 
lie  an'  she  was  close  to  the  old  man.  Mo'  like  pardners 
than  dad  an'  daughter.  Plimsoll  smells  somethin'. 
Figgers  there's  somethin'  in  the  rumor  an'  stahts  this 
talk  of  bein'  pardners  with  Casey  'cause  there's  a 
strike.  Me,  I'm  goin'  to  take  a  pasear  to  town  soon 
an'  I'll  have  a  HT  conversation  with  Jim  the 
Gambolier." 

"Count  me  in  on  that,"  said  Sam. 

"Me  too,"  said  Mormon. 

"Can't  all  three  leave  the  ranch  to  once,"  demurred 
Sandy. 

The  half-breed  came  sleepily  round  the  corner  of 
the  ranch-house  and  struck  at  the  gong  for  the  break- 


48  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

fast  call.  The  vibrations  flooded  the  air  with  wave 
after  wave  of  barbaric  sound  and  Joe  pounded,  with 
awakening  delight  in  the  savage  noise  and  rhythm, 
until  Sandy,  after  yelling  uselessly,  threw  a  rock  at 
him  and  hit  him  between  the  shoulders,  whereupon 
the  light  died  out  of  his  face  and  he  shuffled  away. 

With  the  boom  of  the  gong,  daylight  leaped  up  from 
the  rim  of  the  world.  In  the  east  the  mountains 
seemed  artificial,  sharply  profiled  like  a  theatrical 
setting,  a  slate-purple  in  color.  To  the  west,  the  sharp 
crests  were  luminous  with  a  halo  that  stole  down 
them,  staining  them  rose.  With  the  jump  of  the  sun 
everything  took  on  color  and  lost  form,  plain  and  hills 
swimming,  seeming  to  be  composed  of  vapor,  the 
shapes  of  the  mountains  shifting  every  second,  tenuous, 
smoky.  The  air  was  crisp,  making  the  fingers  tingle. 
The  riders  came  from  their  bunk-houses,  yawning, 
sloshing  a  hasty  toilet  at  a  trough  with  good-natured 
banter,  hurrying  on  to  the  shack,  where  Joe  tendered 
them  the  prodigious  array  of  viands  provided  by  Pedro, 
who  waited  himself  on  the  three  partners  and  the  girl, 
at  the  ranch-house.  The  smell  of  bacon  and  hot  coffee 
spiced  the  air.  Sam,  twisting  his  mustache,  led  the  way. 

"Smells  like  somethin'  in  the  line  of  new  bread  to 
me,"  he  said.  "Bread  or — it  ain't  biscuits,  Molly  ?" 

"Sure  is."  Molly  came  in  with  a  plate  piled  high 
with  biscuits  that  were  evidently  the  present  pride  of 
her  heart.  "Made  a-plenty,"  she  announced.  "Had  to 
wrastle  Pedro  away  from  the  stove  an'  I  ain't  quite  on 
to  that  oven  yet,  but  they  look  good,  don't  they?" 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  49 

"They  sure  do,"  said  Sandy,  taking  one  to  break 
and  butter  it.  The  eagerness  with  which  his  jaws 
clamped  down  upon  it  died  into  a  meditative  chewing 
as  of  a  cow  uncertain  about  the  quality  of  her  cud.  He 
swallowed,  took  a  deep  swig  of  coffee  and  deliberately 
went  on  with  his  biscuit.  Mormon  and  Sam  solemnly 
followed  his  example  while  Molly  beamed  at  them. 

"You  don't  say  they're  good?"  she  said. 

"Too  busy  eating,"  said  Sandy.  And  winked  at 
Sam. 

Molly  caught  the  wink,  took  a  biscuit,  buttered  it, 
bit  into  it. 

Camp-bread  and  biscuits,  eaten  in  the  open,  gar- 
nished with  the  wilderness  sauce  that  creates  appetite, 
eaten  piping  hot,  are  mighty  palatable  though  the 
dough  is  mixed  with  water  and  shortening  is  lacking. 
As  a  camp  cook,  Molly  was  a  success.  Confused  with 
Pedro's  offer  of  lard  and  a  stove  that  was  complicated 
compared  to  her  Dutch  kettle,  the  result  was  a  bitter 
failure  that  she  acknowledged  as  soon  as  her  teeth  met 
through  the  deceptive  crust. 

Molly  was  slow  to  tears  and  quick  to  wrath.  She 
picked  up  the  plate  of  biscuits  and  marched  out  with 
them,  her  back  very  straight.  In  the  kitchen  the 
three  partners  heard  first  the  smash  of  crockery,  then 
the  bang  of  a  pan,  a  staccato  volley  of  words.  She 
came  in  again,  empty-handed,  eyes  blazing. 

"There's  no  bread.  Pedro's  makin'  hot  cakes." 
Then,  as  they  looked  at  her  solemnly:  "You  think 
you're  damned  smart,  don't  you,  tryin'  to  fool  me, 


50  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

purtendin'  they  was  good  when  they'd  pizen  the 
chickens  ?  I  hate  folks  who  act  lies,  same  as  them  that 
speaks  Jem." 

"I've  tasted  worse,"  said  Mormon.  "Honest  I 
have,  Molly.  My  first  wife  put  too  much  saleratus  an' 
salt  in  at  first  but,  after  a  bit,  she  was  a  wonder — as 
a  cook." 

Molly,  as  always,  melted  to  his  grin. 

"I  ain't  got  no  mo'  manners  than  a  chuckawaller," 
she  said  penitently.  "Sandy,  would  you  bring  me  a 
cook-book  in  from  town?" 

"Got  one  somewheres  around." 

"No  we  ain't.  Mormon  used  the  leaves  for  shav- 
in',"  said  Sam.  "Last  winter.  Wudn't  use  his 
denied  ol'  catalogue." 

"I'll  git  one,"  said  Sandy.    "Here's  the  hot  cakes." 

They  devoured  the  savory  stacks,  spread  with  but- 
ter and  sage-honey,  in  comparative  silence.  There 
came  the  noise  of  the  riders  going  off  for  the  day's 
duties  laid  out  by  Sam,  acting  foreman  for  the  month. 
Sandy  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  turning  in 
mock  dismay. 

"Here  comes  that  Bailey  female,"  he  announced. 
"Young  Ed  Bailey  drivin'  the  flivver.  Sure  stahted 
bright  an'  early.  Wonder  what  she's  nosin'  afteh 
now?  Mormon — an'  you,  Sam,"  he  added  sharply, 
"you'll  stick  around  till  she  goes.  Sabe?  I  don't  aim 
to  be  talked  to  death  an'  then  pickled  by  her  vinegar, 
like  I  was  las'  time  she  come  oveh." 

A  tinny  machine,  in  need  of  paint,  short  of  oil, 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  51 

braked  squeakingly  as  a  horn  squawked  and  the  auto 
halted  by  the  porch  steps.  Young  Ed  Bailey  slung  one 
leg  over  another  disproportionate  limb,  glanced  at  the 
windows,  rolled  a  cigarette  and  lit  it  His  aunt,  tall, 
gaunt,  clad  in  starched  dress  and  starched  sunbonnet, 
with  a  rigidity  of  spine  and  feature  that  helped  the 
fancy  that  these  also  had  been  starched,  descended, 
strode  across  the  porch  and  entered  the  living-room, 
her  bright  eyes  darting  all  about,  needling  Molly,  tak- 
ing in  every  detail. 

"Out  lookin'  fo'  a  stray/'  she  announced.  "Red- 
an'-white  heifer  we  had  up  to  the  house  for  milkin'. 
Got  rambuncterous  an'  loped  off.  Had  one  horn 
crumpled.  Rawhide  halter,  ef  she  ain't  got  rid  of  it. 
You  ain't  seen  her,  hev  you?" 

"No  m'm,  we  ain't.  No  strange  heifer  round  the 
Three  Star  that  answers  that  description."  Sam 
winked  at  Molly,  who  was  flushing  under  the  inspec- 
tion of  Miranda  Bailey,  maiden  sister  of  the  neighbor 
owner  of  the  Double-Dumbbell  Ranch.  He  fancied 
the  missing  milker  an  excuse  if  not  an  actual  invention 
to  furnish  opportunity  for  a  visit  to  the  Three  Star, 
an  inspection  of  Molly  Casey  and  subsequent  gossip. 
"You-all  air  up  to  date,"  he  said,  "ridin'  herd  in  a 
flivver." 

"I  see  a  piece  in  the  paper  the  other  day,"  she  said, 
"about  men  playin'  a  game  with  autos  'stead  of  hawsses 
— polo  it  was  called — an'  another  piece  about  cowboys 
cuttin'  out  an'  ropin'  from  autos.  Hawsses  is  passin'. 
Science  is  replacin'  of  'em." 


52  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Reckon  they'll  last  my  time,"  drawled  Sandy.  "I 
hear  they  aim  to  roll  food  up  in  pills  an'  do  us  cattle- 
men out  of  a  livin'.  But  I  ain't  worryin'.  Me,  I  pre- 
fers steaks — somethin'  I  can  set  my  teeth  in.  I  reckon 
there's  mo?  like  me.  Let  me  make  you  'quainted  with 
Miss  Bailey,  Molly.  This  is  Molly  Casey,  whose  dad 
is  dead.  Molly,  if  you-all  want  to  skip  out  an'  tend  to 
them  chickens,  hop  to  it." 

Molly  caught  the  suggestion  that  was  more  than  a 
hint  and  started  for  the  door.  The  woman  checked 
her  with  a  question. 

"How  old  air  you,  Molly  Casey?" 

The  girl  turned,  her  eyes  blank,  her  manner  charged 
with  indifference  that  unbent  to  be  polite. 

"Fifteen."    And  she  went  out. 

"H'm,"  said  Miranda  Bailey,  "fifteen.  Worse'n  I 
imagined." 

Sandy's  eyebrows  went  up.  The  breath  that  car- 
ried his  words  might  have  come  from  a  refrigerator. 

"You  goin'  back  in  the  flivver?"  he  asked,  "or  was 
you  aimin'  to  keep  a-lookinj  fo'  that  red-an'-white 
heifer?" 

Miranda  sniffed. 

"I'm  goin',  soon's  as  I've  said  somethin'  in  the  way 
of  a  word  of  advice  an'  warnin',  seein'  as  how  I  hap- 
pened this  way.  It's  a  woman's  matter  or  I  wouldn't 
meddle.  But,  what  with  talk  goin'  round  Hereford  in 
settin'-rooms,  in  restyrongs,  in  kitchens,  as  well  as  in 
dance-halls  an'  gamblin'  hells  where  they  sell  moon- 
shine, it's  time  it  was  carried  to  you  which  is  most  con- 


SHANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  53 

cerned,  I  take  it,  for  the  good  of  the  child,  not  to  men- 
tion yore  own  repitashuns." 

"Where  was  it  you  heard  it,  ma'am?"  asked  Sam 
politely. 

"Where  you  never  would,  Mister  Soda-Water 
Sam-u-el  Manning/'  she  flashed.  "In  the  parlor  of 
the  Baptis'  Church.  I  ain't  much  time  an'  I  ain't  goin' 
to  waste  it  to  mince  matters.  Here's  a  gel,  a'most  a 
woman,  livin'  with  you  three  bachelor  men." 

"I've  been  married,"  ventured  Mormon. 

"So  I  understand.     Where's  yore  wife?" 

"One  of  'em's  dead,  one  of  'em's  divorced  an*  I  don't 
rightly  sabe  where  the  third  is,  nor  I  ain't  losin'  weight 
concernin'  that  neither." 

"More  shame  to  you.  You're  one  of  these  women- 
haters,  I  s'pose?" 

"No  m'm,  I  ain't.  That's  been  my  trouble.  I  ad- 
mire the  sex  but  I've  been  a  bad  picker.  I'm  jest  a 
woman-dodger. ' ' 

Miranda's  sniff  turned  into  a  snort. 

"I  ain't  heard  nothin'  much  ag'in'  you  men,  I'll  say 
that,"  she  conceded.  "I  reckon  you-all  think  I've  jest 
come  hornin'  in  on  what  ain't  my  affair.  Mebbe  that's 
so.  If  you've  figgered  this  out  same  way  I  have,  tell 
me  an'  I'll  admit  I'm  jest  an  extry  an'  beg  yore 
pardons." 

"Miss  Bailey,"  said  Sandy,  his  manner  changed  to 
courtesy,  "I  believe  you've  come  here  to  do  us  a 
service — an'  Molly  likewise.  So  fur's  I  sabe  there's 
been  some  remahks  passed  concernin'  her  stayin'  here 


54  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

'thout  a  chaperon,  so  to  speak.  Any  one  that  'ud  staht 
that  sort  of  talk  is  a  blood  relation  to  a  centipede  an' 
mebbe  I  can  give  a  guess  as  to  who  it  is.  I  reckon  I 
can  persuade  him  to  quit." 

"Mebbe,  but  you  can't  stop  what's  started  any 
more'n  a  horn-toad  can  stop  a  landslide,  Sandy 
Bourke.  You  can't  kill  scandal  with  gunplay.  The 
gel's  too  young,  in  one  way,  an'  not  young  enough  in 
another,  to  be  stayin'  on  at  the  Three  Star.  You 
oughter  have  sense  enough  to  know  that.  Ef  one  of 
you  was  married,  or  had  a  wife  that  'ud  stay  with  you, 
it  'ud  be  different.  Or  if  there  was  a  woman  house- 
keeper to  the  outfit." 

"That  ain't  possible,"  put  in  Mormon.  "I  told  you 
I'm  a  woman-dodger.  Sandy  here  is  woman-shy. 
Sam  is  wedded  to  his  mouth-organ." 

The  flivver  horn  squawked  outside.  Miranda 
pointed  her  finger  at  Sandy. 

"There's  chores  waitin'  fo'  me.  I  didn't  come  off 
at  daylight  jest  to  be  spyin',  whatever  you  men  may 
think.  You  either  got  to  git  a  grown  woman  here  or 
send  the  gel  away,  fo'  her  own  good,  'fore  the  talk 
gits  so  it'll  shadder  her  life.  I  ain't  married.  I  don't 
expect  to  be,  but  I  aimed  to  be,  once,  'cept  for  a  dirty 
bit  of  gossip  that  started  in  my  home  town  'thout  a 
word  of  truth  in  it.  Now,  I've  said  my  say,  you-all 
talk  it  over." 

Sandy  went  to  the  door  with  her,  helped  her  into 
the  machine.  It  shudderingly  gathered  itself  together 
and  wheezed  off;  he  came  back  with  his  face  serious. 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  55 

"She's  right,"  he  said. 

"Mormon,"  said  Sam,  "it's  up  to  you.  Advertise 
fo'  Number  Three  to  come  back — all  is  forgiven — or 
git  you  a  divo'ce,  it's  plumb  easy  oveh  in  the  nex'  state 
— an*  pick  a  good  one  this  time." 

"We  got  to  send  her  away,"  said  Sandy.  "Me,  I'm 
goin'  into  Herefo'd  to-night.  I  aim  to  git  a  cook-book, 
interview  Jim  Plimsoll  an'  then  bu'st  his  bank.  One 
of  you  come  erlong.  Match  fo'  it." 

"Bu'st  the  bank  what  with?"  asked  Sam. 

Sandy  produced  the  ten-dollar  luck-piece  and  held 
it  up. 

"This.     Mormon,  choose  yore  side." 

"Heads." 

Sandy  flipped  the  coin.  It  fell  with  a  golden  ring 
on  the  floor.  "Tails,"  said  Sandy  inspecting  it.  "You 
come,  Sam.  Staht  afteh  noon.  Oil  up  yore  gun." 

"I  knowed  I'd  lose,"  said  Mormon  dolefully. 
"Dang  my  luck  anyway." 

It  was  a  little  after  seven  o'clock  when  Sandy  and 
Sam  walked  out  of  the  Cactus  Restaurant,  leaving 
their  ponies  hitched  to  the  rail  in  front.  They  strolled 
down  the  main  street  of  Hereford  across  the  railroad 
tracks  to  where  the  "Brisket,"  as  the  cowboys  styled 
the  little  town's  tenderloin,  huddled  its  collection  of 
shacks,  with  their  false  fronts  faced  to  the  dusty  street 
and  their  rear  entrances,  still  cumbered  with  cases  of 
empty  bottles  and  idle  kegs,  turned  to  the  almost  dry 
bed  of  the  creek.  The  signs  of  ante-prohibition  days, 
blistered  and  faded,  were  still  in  place.  Light  showed 


56  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

in  windows  where  fly-specked  useless  licenses  were 
displayed.  Back  of  the  bars  a  melancholy  array  of 
soda-water  advertised  lack  of  interest  in  soft  drinks. 
The  front  rooms  held  no  loungers,  but  the  click  of 
chips  and  murmurs  of  talk  came  from  behind  closed 
doors. 

Sandy  stopped  outside  the  place  labeled  "Good  Luck 
Pool  Parlors.  J.  Plimsoll,  Prop."  The  line  "Best 
Liquor  and  Cigars"  was  half  smeared  out.  He  patted 
gently  the  butts  of  the  two  Colts  in  the  holsters,  whose 
ends  were  tied  down  to  the  fringe  ornaments  of  his 
chaps.  Sam  stroked  his  ropey  mustache  and  eased  the 
gun  at  his  hip.  Sandy  pushed  open  the  door  and  went 
in.  A  man  was  playing  Canfield  at  a  table  in  the 
deserted  bar.  As  the  pair  entered  he  looked  up  with 
a  "Howdy,  gents?"  shoving  back  a  rickety  table  and 
chair  noisily  on  the  uneven  floor.  The  inner  door 
swung  silently  as  at  a  signal  and  Jim  Plimsoll  came 
out.  He  stiffened  a  little  at  the  sight  of  the  Three 
Star  men  and  then  grinned  at  Sam. 

"How  was  the  last  bottle,  Soda-Water?"  he  asked. 
"You  didn't  have  to  change  your  name  with  Prohibi- 
tion, did  you?  Nor  your  habits." 

"Main  thing  that's  changed  is  the  quality  of  yore 
booze — an*  the  price,  neither  fo'  the  better,"  said  Sam 
carelessly. 

"We  ain't  drinkin'  ter-night,  Jim,"  said  Sandy. 
"Dropped  in  to  hev  a  liT  talk  with  you  an*  then  take 
a  buck  at  the  tiger." 

Plimsoll's  eyes  glittered. 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  5? 

"Said  talk  bein'  private,"  continued  Sandy. 

Plimsoll  threw  a  glance  at  the  man  who  had  been 
posted  for  lookout  and  he  left  with  a  curious  gaze  that 
took  in  Sandy's  guns. 

"Sorry  I  was  away  from  the  ranch,  time  you  called," 
said  Sandy,  sitting  with  one  leg  thrown  over  the  cor- 
ner of  the  table.  "Hope  to  be  there  nex'  time.  I  hear 
you-all  claim  to  have  an  interest  in  Pat  Casey's  mininr 
locations,  his  interest  now  bein'  his  daughter's?" 

"That  any  of  your  business?" 

"I  aim  to  make  it  my  business,"  replied  Sandy. 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  fought  a  pitched  battle 
with  their  eyes.  It  was  a  warfare  that  Sandy  Bourke 
was  an  expert  in.  The  steel  of  his  glance  often  saved 
him  the  lead  in  his  cartridges.  Jim  Plimsoll  was  no 
fool  to  wage  uneven  contest.  He  fancied  he  would 
have  the  advantage  over  Sandy  later,  if  the  pair  really 
meant  to  play  faro — in  his  place. 

"I  grubstaked  him  for  the  Hopeful-Dynamite  dis- 
covery," he  said. 

"Got  any  papeh  showin'  that?     Witnessed." 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  papers  ain't  often 
drawn  on  grubstaking  contracts.  A  man's  word  is 
considered  good." 

"Pat  Casey's  would  have  been,  I  reckon,"  said 
Sandy. 

"I've  got  witnesses." 

"Well,  we'll  let  that  matteh  slide  till  the  mines  make 
a  showin'.  Meantime,  there's  talk  goin'  on  in  this 
town  concernin'  the  gel  an'  her  livin'  at  Three  Star.  I 


58  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

look  to  you  to  contradict  that  so't  of  gossip,  Plimsoll, 
from  now  on." 

Plimsoll  flushed  angrily. 

"Who  in  hell  do  you  think  you  are  ?"  he  demanded. 
"Who  appointed  you  censor  to  any  man's  speech?" 

"A  man's  speech  don't  have  to  be  censored,  Plimsoll. 
An'  I  reckon  you  know  who  I  am." 

"You  come  here  looking  for  trouble,  with  me?" 

"I  never  hunt  trouble,  Jim.  If  I  can't  help  buttin' 
into  it,  like  a  man  might  ride  into  a  rattlesnake  in  the 
mesquite,  I  aim  to  handle  it.  Ef  I  ever  got  into  real 
trouble,  an'  it  resembled  you,  I'd  make  you  climb  so 
fast,  Plimsoll,  you'd  wish  you  had  horns  on  yore  knees 
an'  eyebrows." 

Plimsoll  forced  a  laugh.  "Fair  warning,  Sandy.  I 
never  raise  a  fuss  with  a  two-gun  man.  It  ain't 
healthy.  You've  got  me  wrong  in  this  matter." 

"Glad  to  hear  it.  Then  there  won't  be  no  argyment. 
Game  open?" 

"Wide.  An*  a  little  hundred-proof  stuff  to  take 
the  alkali  out  of  your  throats.  How  about  it  ?" 

"I  don't  drink  when  I'm  playin'.  I  aim  to  break 
the  bank  ter-night.  I'm  feelin'  lucky.  Brought  my 
mascot  erlong." 

"Meaning  Sam  here?" 

AH  three  laughed  for  a  mutual  clearance  of  the 
situation.  Sandy  had  said  what  he  wanted  and  knew 
that  Plimsoll  interpreted  it  correctly.  They  went  into 
the  back  room  amicably  after  Plimsoll  had  recalled 
his  lookout 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  59 

There  was  little  to  indicate  the  passing  of  the  Vol- 
stead Act  in  the  Good  Luck  Pool  Room,  where  the 
tables  had  long  ago  been  taken  out,  though  the  cue 
racks  still  stood  in  place.  The  place  was  foul  with 
smoke  and  reeked  with  the  fumes  of  expensive  but 
indifferently  distilled  liquor.  Hereford — the  "brisket" 
end  of  it — had  never  been  fussy  about  mixed  drinks. 
Redeye  was,  and  continued  to  be,  the  favorite.  A  faro 
and  a  roulette  game,  with  a  craps  table,  made  up  the 
equipment,  outside  of  half  a  dozen  small  tables  given 
over  to  stud  and  draw  poker. 

Some  fifty  men  were  present,  most  of  them  playing. 
Many  of  them  nodded  at  Sandy  and  Sam  as  they 
walked  over  to  the  faro  layout  and  stood  looking  on. 
Plimsoll  left  them  and  went  back  to  a  table  near  the 
door,  where  his  chair  was  turned  down  at  a  game  of 
draw.  He  started  talking  in  a  low  tone  to  the  man 
seated  next  to  him.  The  first  interest  of  their  entrance 
soon  died  out.  The  dealer  at  faro  went  on  imperturb- 
ably  sliding  card  after  card  out  of  the  case,  the  case- 
keeper  fingered  the  buttons  on  the  wires  of  his  abacus 
and  the  players  shifted  their  chips  about  the  layout 
or  nervously  shuffled  them  between  the  fingers  of  one 
hand. 

Sandy  knew  the  dealer  for  Sim  Hahn,  a  man  whose 
livelihood  lay  in  the  dexterity  of  his  slim  well-kept 
fingers  and  his  ability  to  reckon  the  bets;  swiftly  to 
drag  in  or  pay  out  losings  and  winnings  without  an 
error.  His  face  was  without  a  wrinkle,  clean-shaven, 
every  slick  black  hair  in  place,  the  flesh  wax-like.  He 


60  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

held  a  record — whispered,  not  attested — of  having 
more  than  once  beaten  a  protesting  gambler  to  the 
draw  and  then  subscribing  to  the  funeral.  As  he  came 
to  the  last  turn,  with  three  cards  left  in  the  box,  he 
paused,  waiting  for  bets  to  be  made.  His  eyes  met 
Sandy's  and  he  nodded.  Three  men  named  the  order 
of  the  last  three  cards.  None  of  them  guessed  the 
right  one  of  the  six  ways  in  which  they  might  have 
appeared.  Hahn  took  in,  paid  out,  shuffled  the  cards 
for  a  new  deal.  Sam  nudged  Sandy,  speaking  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  mouth  words  that  no  one  else  could 
catch. 

"The  hombre  PlimsolFs  talkin'  to  is  'Butch'  Par- 
sons. He's  the  killer  Brady  hired  over  to  the  M-Bar- 
M  to  chase  off  the  nesters." 

Sandy  said  nothing,  did  not  move.  As  the  play 
began  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  "killer"  who  had 
been  named  "Butch,"  after  he  had  shot  two  heads  of 
families  that  had  preempted  land  on  the  range  that 
Brady  claimed  as  part  of  his  holding.  Whatever  the 
justice  of  that  claim,  it  was  generally  understood  that 
Butch  had  killed  in  cold  blood,  Brady's  political  pull 
smothering  prosecution  and  inquiry.  Butch  had  a 
hawkish  nose  and  an  outcurving  chin.  He  was  prac- 
tically bald.  Reddish  eyebrows  straggled  sparsely 
above  pale  blue  eyes,  the  color  of  cheap  graniteware. 
His  lips  were  thin  and  pallid,  making  a  hard  line  of 
his  mouth.  He  packed  a  gun,  well  back  of  him,  as  he 
sat  at  the  game.  Meeting  Sandy's  lightly  passing 
gaze,  Butch  sent  out  a  puff  of  smoke  from  his  half- 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  6 1 

finished  cigar.  The  pale  eyes  pointed  the  action,  it 
might  have  been  a  challenge,  even  a  covert  insult. 
Sandy  ignored  it,  devoting  his  attention  to  the  case- 
keeper. 

The  jacks  came  out  early,  three  of  them  losing,  show- 
ing second  on  the  turn.  A  dozen  bets  went  down  on 
the  fourth  jack  to  win.  Sandy  placed  the  luck-piece 
on  the  card,  reached  for  a  "copper"  marker,  and 
played  it  to  lose. 

"That's  a  luck-piece,  Hahn,"  he  said.  "If  it  loses, 
I'll  take  it  up."  Hahn  gave  him  an  eye-flick  of 
acknowledgment.  He  was  used  to  mascots.  Sandy 
watched  the  play  until  at  last  the  jack  slid  off  to  rest 
by  the  side  of  the  case,  leaving  the  winning  card,  a 
nine,  exposed.  Sandy  alone  had  won.  The  luck-piece 
had  proved  its  merit. 

In  twenty  minutes  Sam  borrowed  a  stack  from 
Sandy's  steadily  accumulating  winnings  and  departed 
for  the  craps  table.  He  wanted  quicker  action  than 
faro  gave  him.  Luck  flirted  with  him,  never  entirely 
deserting  him.  And  Sandy  won  until  the  news  of  his 
luck  spread  through  the  room.  The  gamblers  began 
to  get  the  hunch  that  the  Three  Star  man  was  going 
to  break  the  bank.  Not  all  at  the  faro  layout  attempted 
to  follow  his  bets.  Plimsoirs  roll  had  never  yet  been 
very  badly  crimped.  With  the  peculiar  parodox  of 
their  kind,  while  they  told  each  other  that  PlimsoH's 
game  was  square,  they  held  the  secret  conviction  that 
Hahn's  fingers  would  manipulate  the  case  in  an  emer- 
gency so  that  the  house  would  win.  And  they  waited 


62  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

feverishly  for  the  time  to  come  when  such  a  show- 
down would  arrive. 

Sandy  did  not  have  many  chips  in  front  of  him,  but 
there  were  five  small  oblongs  of  blue,  markers  repre- 
senting five  hundred  dollars  apiece.  Hahn  laid  the 
fingers  of  his  right  hand  lightly  across  the  top  of  the 
case,  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand  curled  about  it.  It 
had  come  down  to  the  last  turn  of  the  deal  again. 
Every  player  and  onlooker  knew  what  the  three  cards 
were — a  queen,  a  five  and  a  deuce.  The  checking- 
board  showed  that  the  queen  had  lost  twice  and  won 
once,  the  five  had  won  three  times  and  the  deuce  had 
won  twice  and  lost  once.  Most  of  the  players  shifted 
their  bets  accordingly,  the  queen  to  win,  the  five  and 
deuce  to  lose.  Hahn  still  waited. 

"Coin'  to  call  th'  turn?" 

All  eyes  shifted  to  Sandy.  No  one  else  was  going  to 
try  to  name  that  combination.  If  the  order  of  the 
three  cards  were  named  correctly  the  bank  would  pay 
four  to  one.  If  Sandy  staked  all  on  his  call  he  would 
win  over  ten  thousand  dollars.  Plimsoll  would  have 
to  open  his  safe.  Hahn  did  not  have  that  amount  in 
his  cash  drawer. 

The  rest — save  Sam,  now  close  behind  Sandy,  with 
ninety  dollars  winnings  cashed-in — watched  Sandy 
enviously  and  curiously.  Hahn  was  a  wonder.  The 
case  might  be  crooked,  the  spring  eccentric.  Plimsoll 
himself  was  looking  on.  Butch  Parsons  stood  beside 
him  for  a  second  and  then  strolled  into  the  front  room. 
Another  man  followed  him. 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  63 

Sandy  shoved  the  markers  across  the  board,  followed 
by  his  chips.  Apparently  aimlessly,  he  hitched  at  his 
belt  and  the  two  Colts  with  their  tied-down  holsters 
swung  a  little  to  the  front,  their  handles  just  touching 
his  hips. 

"Deuce — queen— five,  I'm  bettin',"  he  said.  "An' 
deal  'em  slow."  His  voice  drawled  and  his  eyes  lifted 
to  Harm's  and  rested  there. 

Hahn  had  been  mechanically  chewing  gum  most  of 
the  evening.  Now  his  cheek  muscles  bulged  more 
plainly  and  the  end  of  his  tongue  showed  for  a  second 
between  his  lips.  His  right  hand  dropped  and  he  drew 
out  a  deuce.  Eyes  shifted  from  Sandy  to  Plimsoll,  to 
Hahn.  Little  beads  of  moisture  oozed  out  on  the 
dealer's  forehead.  Plimsoll's  black  brows  met. 
Sandy's  face  was  placid.  Breaths  were  indrawn  as 
Hahn  paid  out  and  raked  in  on  the  card,  his  left  hand 
covering  the  top  of  the  case. 

The  atmosphere  was  charged  with  intensity.  Plim- 
soll's dark  eyes  were  boring  through  the  dealer's  low- 
ered lids. 

"Move  yo'  fingehs,  dealer,  an'  reveal  royalty," 
drawled  Sandy.  "The  queen  wins !"  His  hands  were 
on  his  hips,  fingers  touching  the  butts  of  his  guns,  his 
eyes  burned.  For  all  its  drag  there  was  a  ring  to  his 
voice. 

Hahn  shot  one  swift  look  at  him  and  removed  his 
hand.  The  queen  showed.  The  room  gasped.  Plim- 
soll clapped  Sandy  on  the  shoulder. 

"You  did  it,"  he  said.    "Broke  the  bank  when  you 


64  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

called  that  turn.    Game's  closed  and  the  drinks  on  the 
house.     How'll  you  have  it?" 

The  crowd  made  way  as  Plimsoll  walked  across  to 
his  safe,  twirled  the  combination,  opened  the  doors  and 
took  out  a  stack  of  bills. 

"Bills  from  a  century  up,"  said  Sandy.  "The  odds 
and  ends  in  gold — for  the  drinks." 

The  excitement  was  dying  down.  The  man  from 
the  Three  Star  had  won  and  had  been  paid.  Plim- 
soll's  game  was  square.  A  few,  reading  the  slight 
signs  of  Hahn's  nervousness,  still  held  some  doubts, 
but  the  games  were  closing.  The  drinks  were  brought. 
Two  men  lounged  out  into  the  front  room  after  they 
had  tossed  theirs  down.  Sandy  slipped  the  folded  bills 
into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  shirt  in  a  compact 
package. 

"See  who  went  out  ?"  asked  Sam  in  his  side  whisper. 

"Yep.  Saw  it  in  the  glass  of  that  picture.  We'll 
go  out  the  back  way.  Not  yet."  He  shouldered  his 
way  through  the  congratulating  crowd,  Sam  close 
behind  him.  into  the  front  room.  It  was  empty.  The 
short  end  of  Sandy's  winnings  still  provided  liquor. 
For  a  moment  they  were  alone.  Plimsoll  had  not  fol- 
lowed them.  Sandy  swiftly  socketed  the  bolt  on  the 
inside  of  the  front  door,  turned  the  key  and  slid  that 
into  his  pocket. 

I  "Now  we'll  go  out  the  back  way,"  he  said.  "I  ain't 
strong  fo*  playin'  crawfish,  Sam,  but  I  ain't  keen  on 
bein'  potted  in  the  dark.  I'll  bet  what  I  got  in  my 
pocket  Butch  is  huggin'  the  boards  to  one  side  of  this 


SANDY  CALLS  THE  TURN  65 

shack.  I  got  too  much  money  on  me  to  be  a  good 
insurance  risk/' 

Sam  chuckled.  Plimsoll  met  them  just  inside  the 
door. 

"Makin'  a  short  cut,"  said  Sandy.     "Good  night." 

As  the  pair  went  out  at  the  rear,  Plimsoll  jumped 
into  the  front  room.  Sam,  closing  the  back  door 
behind  them  noiselessly,  heard  the  gambler  cursing  at 
the  bolted  door.  Silently  as  a  cat,  he  covered  the  short 
distance  between  the  house  and  the  arroyo  of  the 
creek  and  disappeared,  merged  in  its  shadow.  Sandy 
joined  him  and  they  made  their  way  swiftly  along  the 
bottom,  climbing  the  bank  where  the  railroad  bridge 
crossed  it,  striking  off  for  the  main  street,  lit  by  sput- 
tery  arc-lamps,  making  for  their  ponies,  still  standing 
patiently  outside  the  all-night  restaurant. 

"No  sense  in  runnin'  our  heads  into  a  flyin'  noose," 
said  Sandy.  "Plimsoll  owns  the  sheriff.  Married 
his  sister.  We'd  be  wrong  whatever  stahted.  They'd 
frisk  me  of  my  roll  an*  we'd  never  see  it  ag'in,  less  we 
made  a  runnin'  fight  of  it.  Wondeh  how  much  eddi- 
cation  costs  nowadays,  Sam?  What  you  laffin'  at?" 

"Butch  an'  the  rest  of  Plimsoll's  gunmen  holdin'  up 
the  shack,  waitin'  fo'  us  to  come  out,  while  Plim  is 
huntin'  that  key." 

"Don't  laff  too  hard  till  we  git  home,"  said  Sandy. 
"It's  eleven  miles  to  the  Three  Star." 

They  mounted,  swung  their  horses  and  loped  off 
toward  the  bridge  across  the  creek.  There  were  two 
spans,  one  built  since  the  advent  of  automobiles,  the 


66  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

other  ancient,  little  used.  They  headed  for  the  latter. 
Passing  the  end  of  the  street  they  saw  nothing  out  of 
the  ordinary.  The  door  of  the  "Good  Luck"  was 
open,  shown  by  a  square  of  light.  A  group  stood 
outside.  Sandy  and  Sam  rode  off,  the  ponies'  hoofs 
silent  in  the  soft  thick  dust;  moving  shadows  in  the 
twilight,  merging  with  the  dark. 


CHAPTER  M 

IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK 

THE  old  bridge,  utilized  only  by  wheels  with 
metal  tires  these  days,  and  by  riders,  opened  a 
short-cut  to  the  road  leading  to  the  Three  Star,  a  way 
hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  the  plain.  Sandy  was 
minded  to  get  back  to  the  ranch  as  soon  as  possible 
with  his  winnings.  Five  thousand  for  Molly,  five 
thousand  for  the  Three  Star,  that  was  the  agreement, 
the  custom,  and  he  knew  the  girl's  breed  well  enough 
to  have  no  hesitation  in  making  the  split  as  he  would 
with  a  man.  The  next  thing  to  do  was  to  pick  out  a 
school  for  her.  There  Sandy  was  at  a  loss.  He  mulled 
it  over  as  he  rode,  his  outer  senses  playing  sentinels  to 
his  consciousness. 

He  had  deliberately  avoided  trouble  for  reasons  he 
considered  quite  sufficient,  but  annoyance  pricked  him 
that  he  had  been  forced  to  slide  out  the  back  way  from 
Plimsoirs,  for  all  the  odds  against  him.  If  it  had 
been  his  own  money — a  sudden  flash  of  future  respon- 
sibilities as  Molly  Casey's  guardian  illumined  his 
thought — if  the  luck-piece  had  not  been  hers,  the  play 
for  her  future  welfare,  he  would  have  set  his  own 
marvelous  coordination  against  Butch  and  the  others 
in  a  shooting  match,  as  he  had  done  other  times,  in 

67 


68  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

other  places.  Sam,  he  knew,  was  wondering  a  little 
at  their  strategic  retreat. 

But  the  old  days  were  going,  law  and  order  were 
beginning  to  supersede  the  old  methods  of  every  man 
to  his  own  judgment  and  action.  Hereford  had  a 
sheriff  who  was  not  above  suspicion,  but  the  majority 
of  the  people  had  little  use  for  him  and  this  term  of 
office  would  be  his  last. 

Sandy  could  not  quite  gauge  PlimsoH's  actions  in 
tamely  paying  over  the  winnings  and  he  looked  and 
listened,  noting  every  movement  of  Pronto  moving 
free-muscled  beneath  him,  for  some  sign  of  alarm — 
perhaps  a  rifle-shot  out  of  the  mesquite.  They  were  not 
the  best  of  targets,  Sam  and  he,  riding  fast  in  the 
thick  dusk  under  the  stars.  The  road  was  almost  invis- 
ible, the  plain  unsubstantial,  though  the  far-off  moun- 
tain ranges  showed  plainly  cut,  with  a  curious  trick  of 
seeming  always  to  shift  back  as  the  observer  advanced. 
Little  winds  blew  in  their  faces,  cool  and  sweet  from 
the  desert,  charged  with  spice  of  sage. 

The  ponies  struck  the  loosened  planks  of  the  bridge 
clop-clop,  springing  forward  into  a  gallop  as  their 
riders  touched  heels  to  flanks.  The  pinto  was  the 
quicker  to  get  into  his  stride.  Just  past  the  center  of 
the  bridge  Sam  saw  Sandy's  mount  jump  like  a  startled 
cat  into  the  air.  He  saw  Sandy  pliant  in  his  seat, 
marked  against  the  starry  sky.  Then  came  a  spurt  of 
red  flame  from  the  far  bank — to  the  right — another — 
and  another — from  the  left.  A  bullet  hummed  by  him 
and  his  own  horse  slid  stiff-legged,  plowing  the  planks, 


IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK  69 

hind  feet  flat  from  hoof-points  to  fetlocks  as  the  pony 
whirled  away  from  the  yawning  gap  in  the  bridge, 
where  boards  had  been  pried  away  in  the  preparation 
of  the  ambush. 

Helpless  for  the  moment  until  he  got  his  bearings 
and  his  pony  gained  solid  footing,  Sam  automatically 
whipped  out  his  gun,  cursing  as  he  saw  Sandy  slide 
from  the  saddle,  clutch  at  the  rim  of  the  gap,  drop 
down  to  the  bed  of  the  creek,  while  Pronto,  frantic 
at  the  loss  of  his  master,  leaped  the  opening  and  fled 
with  clatter  of  hoof  and  swinging  stirrup  into  the 
desert. 

Sam,  wild  with  rage  at  the  thought  of  Sandy  shot, 
scrambling  in  bloody  sand  below  him,  flung  himself 
from  the  roan  as  more  bullets  whined,  whupping  into 
the  planks.  One  seared  his  upper  arm,  another  struck 
the  saddle  tree  as  he  vaulted  off,  slapping  the  roan 
on  the  flanks,  yelling  at  it  as  it  gathered,  leaped  the 
gap  and  followed  Pronto. 

"You  damned,  cowardly,  murderin'  pack  of  lousy 
coyotes!"  swore  Sam  mechanically,  as  he  knelt  on  the 
edge  of  the  gap  and  tried  to  pierce  the 'blackness,  lis- 
tening fearfully  for  a  groan.  He  had  not  fired  back. 
There  was  nothing  to  fire  at  but  clumps  of  blurred 
growth.  The  shots  had  been  too  sudden,  the  shying 
of  the  horses  too  confusing  for  location. 

He  kneeled  over  the  rim  of  the  last  plank,  turned, 
caught  with  his  hands,  revolver  thrust  back  into  its 
holster,  swung,  dropped.  A  hand  closed  about  his 
ankle,  pulled  him  down  sprawling  on  the  soft  sand. 


70  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I'm  O.  K.,"  whispered  Sandy,  and  Sam's  heart 
leaped.  "Only  plugged  the  rim  of  my  hat.  I  faked  a 
fall  to  fool  'em.  Snake  erlong  down  the  crick  bed. 
Here's  where  we  git  even."  Sam  knew  that  ring  in 
his  partner's  voice,  low  though  it  was,  and  his  blood 
tingled.  The  high  crumbly  banks  ,of  the  creek,  gouged 
out  by  winter  rains  and  cloud-bursts,  were  set  with 
brush.  Immediately  above  the  bridge  were  the 
stripped  trunks  of  cottonwoods,  stranded  in  a  flood. 
Peering  through  the  boughs,  they  saw  stooping  figures 
running  along  the  bank.  A  man  called  from  the  lower 
side  of  the  bridge,  a  shot  was  fired  harmlessly.  The 
hunters  in  view  raced  back. 

"Think  they  saw  us,"  whispered  Sandy.  "They'll 
hear  from  us,  right  soon."  He  led  the  way  back, 
crossing  to  the  town  side  beneath  the  bridge,  keeping 
half-way  up  the  bank,  close  under  the  stringers  of  the 
bridge,  crawling  between  bushes  on  his  belly,  Sam 
with  him.  Now  they  could  see  no  gunmen  but  occa- 
sionally they  caught  a  whisper,  the  slight  sound  of 
moving  brush. 

There  was  only  a  trickle  of  water  in  the  bed  of  the 
creek.  Here  and  there  were  small  bars  of  bleached 
shingle  and  larger  boulders.  Sandy  found  a  stone  im- 
bedded in  the  bank,  loosened  it,  squatted  on  his 
haunches  and  passed  it  to  Sam,  taking  a  gun  in  each 
hand. 

"Chuck  it  into  that  sunflower  patch,"  he  said  with 
his  mouth  close  to  Sam's  ear.  "Then  fire  at  the 
flashes."  Sam  pitched  the  stone  through  the  dark- 


IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK  71 

ness.  It  fell  with  a  rustle,  chinked  against  a  rock.  In- 
stantly there  came  a  fusillade  from  the  opposite  bank, 
four  streaks  of  fire,  the  bullets  cutting  through  -the 
dried  stalks,  the  marksmen  evidently  hunting  In  cou- 
ples. { 

Sandy,  crouching,  pulled  triggers  and  the  shq;$  rat- 
tled out  as  if  fired  from  an  automatic.  Besidfc  |iim, 
Sam's  gun  barked.  Each  fired  three  times,  Sandy 
shooting  two-handed,  flinging  six  bullets  with  instinc- 
tive aim  while  the  bed  of  the  creek  echoed  to  the  roar 
of  the  guns  and  the  air  hung  heavy  with  the  reek  of 
exploded  gases.  Then  they  rushed  for  the  top  of  the 
bank,  wriggling  behind  the  cover  of  bushes,  lying 
prone  for  the  next  chance. 

One  yell  and  a  stream  of  curses  came  from  across 
the  arroyo.  Two  indistinct  figures  bent  above  a  third, 
lifted  it,  hurrying  back  toward  a  clump  of  willows. 
The  fourth  man  trailed  the  others,  his  oaths  smothered, 
running  beside  the  two  bearers,  his  hand  held  curiously 
in  front  of  him,  dimly  seen. 

"They're  through.  That's  enough,"  said  Sandy. 
"We  ain't  killers." 

"Got  two  of  'em,"  said  Sam.  "Good  shootin', 
Sandy!  I  reckon  I  missed  clean.  I  fired  to  the  left." 

"The  man  who's  down  is  Butch,"  said  Sandy.  "I'd 
know  his  figger  in  a  coal  shaft.  I've  a  hunch  the  other 
was  Hahn.  Hit  him  somewheres  in  the  hand ;  spile  his 
dealin'  fo'  a  while.  Let's  git  out  of  this.  They've  quit." 

"Wonder  if  Plimsoll  was  with  'em.  How  about 
the  hawsses?  Can  you  whistle  Pronto  back?" 


72  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Reckon  so." 

They  walked  toward  the  bridge  and  crossed  it, 
passing  the  gap  on  the  side  timbers.  Plimsoll's  men 
had  departed  with  their  casualties.  Sandy  whistled 
shril)y  through  his  teeth.  After  a  minute  he  repeated 
the  £all. 

'Sure  hate  to  hoof  it  to  the  ranch,"  said  Sam. 
"Mebbe  the  shots  stampeded  'em.  Better  not  try  to 
borrow  hawsses  in  town,  I  figger." 

"No.  Pronto  ain't  fur.  Yore  roan'll  stick  with 
him.  That  pinto  of  mine  is  half  human.  I've  sent 
him  ahead  before.  Ef  I'd  yelled  'Home'  he'd  have 
gone.  Shots  w'udn't  have  scared  him.  Made  him 
stand  by— like  Molly." 

"Got  yore  money  safe?" 

"Yep." 

There  came  a  sound  of  pounding  hoofs.  Then  that 
of  others,  coming  from  the  town. 

"Better  load  up,  Sam,"  said  Sandy  grimly,  "we  ain't 
out  of  this  yet.  That'll  be  Jim  Plimsoll's  brother-in- 
law,  likely." 

"Here  come  our  ponies." 

As  yet  they  could  see  nothing  advancing,  but  a 
horse  whinnied  from  the  plain  lying  between  them 
and  the  Three  Star  road. 

"Pronto,"  said  Sandy,  shoving  cartridges  into  his 
guns. 

A  body  of  mounted  men  had  come  out  from  town 
and  ridden  fast  upon  the  bridge.  The  foremost  stopped 
with  an  exclamation  at  the  missing  boards.  All 


IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK  73 

wheeled  in  some  confusion  and  slid  their  horses  down 
into  the  arroyo  to  scramble  up  the  bank  again  and 
spur  for  Sam  and  Sandy  just  as  the  pinto  and  the 
roan,  curveted  up  to  their  masters.  The  two  cowmen 
leaped  for  their  seats,  Sandy  temporarily  sheathing 
one  gun.  They  faced  the  townsmen  who  formed  a 
half-circle  about  them. 

"You,  Sandy  Bourke  an'  Sam  Manning,  stick  up 
yore  hands !" 

"You  got  good  eyesight,"  returned  Sandy.  "What's 
the  idee?  Ef  you  shoot,  don't  miss,  I'm  holdin'  tor- 
able  close  ter-night." 

His  tone  was  almost  good-humored,  tolerant,  full 
of  confidence. 

"You  was  shootin*  in  town  limits.  May  have  killed 
some  one.  Ag'in'  the  law  to  shoot  inside  the  Here- 
fo'd  line.  I'm  goin'  to  take  you  in." 

"You  air?"  Sandy's  drawl  was  charged  with  mock- 
ery. "How  about  the  Herefo'd  men  who  stahted  the 
fireworks?  Ef  you  want  our  guns,  Sheriff,  come  an' 
take  'em.  First  come,  first  served." 

There  was  no  forward  movement.  A  man  swore 
as  his  horse  began  to  dance. 

"You  go  back  an'  tell  Jim  Plimsoll  to  do  his  own 
dirty  wo'k,  if  he's  got  any  guts  left  fo'  tryin'.  Me,  I'm 
goin'  home." 

The  sheriff  and  his  hastily  gathered  band  of  irregu- 
lar deputies,  working  in  the  interests  of  Plimsoll, 
knew,  with  sufficient  intimacy  to  endow  them  with 
caution,  the  general  record  of  Sandy  Bourke  and  Soda- 


74  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Water  Sam.  None  of  them  wanted  to  risk  a  shot — 
and  miss.  Sandy  would  not.  Even  a  fatal  wound 
might  not  prevent  him  taking  toll.  Sam  was  almost 
as  dangerous.  They  were  politicians  rather  than 
fighting  men,  every  one  of  them.  And  they  were  tol- 
erably certain  that  Plimsoll  had  ambushed  the  two 
from  the  Three  Star.  His  methods  were  akin  to  their 
own.  The  sheriff  blustered. 

"I  ain't  through  with  you  yit,  Sandy  Bourke.  I 
know  where  to  find  you." 

"You-all  are  goin'  to  have  a  mighty  hard  time  find- 
in'  yo'se'f  afteh  election,  Sheriff,  as  it  is.  The  cow- 
men ain't  crazy  about  you.  They  might  take  a  notion 
to  escort  you  out  of  the  county  limits." 

"You're  inside  the  town  line.    I " 

"I  won't  be  in  two  minutes.  Git  out  of  our  road," 
said  Sandy,  his  voice  freezing  in  sudden  contempt.  He 
roweled  Pronto  and,  with  Sam  even  in  the  jump,  they 
galloped  through  the  half-ring  without  opposition. 
Horses  were  neck-reined  aside  to  let  them  pass.  The 
wind  sang  by  them  as  they  tangented  off  from  the 
road.  A  shot  or  two  announced  the  attempt  of  some 
to  save  their  own  faces,  but  no  bullets  came  near  the 
pair.  The  fusillade  was  sheer  bravado. 

Pronto  and  the  roan  went  at  full  speed,  bellies  low 
to  the  plain  that  streamed  past,  the  manes  whipping 
the  hands  of  their  riders,  springing  on  sinews  of 
whalebone  through  soapweed  and  mesquite,  spurning 
the  soil  with  drumming  hoofs,  night-seeing,  danger- 
dodging,  jumping  the  little  gullies,  reveling  in  the 


I 

IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK  75 

rush.  Sandy  and  Sam  sat  slightly  forward,  loose- 
seated,  thigh-muscles  and  knees  feeling  the  withers 
rather  than  pressing  them,  balancing  their  own  limber 
bodies  to  every  movement  of  the  flying  ponies. 

A  late  moon  climbed  out  of  the  east  and  scudded  up 
the  sky,  silvering  the  distant  peaks.  For  almost  a 
mile  they  rode  at  top  speed,  then  they  settled  down  to 
a  lope  that  ate  up  the  miles — a  walk  at  the  end  of 
three — then  lope  and  walk  again,  until  the  giant  cot- 
tonwoods  of  the  Three  Star  rose  from  the  plain, 
leaves  shimmering  in  the  moonlight,  the  ranch  build- 
ings blocked  in  purple  pin-pointed  with  orange — the 
pin-points  enlarging,  resolving  into  two  lighted  win- 
dows as  they  passed  shack  and  barn  and  rode  into  the 
home  corral  at  last,  to  unsaddle,  wipe  down  the  horses 
and  dismiss  them  for  the  time  with  a  smack  on  their 
lathery  flanks,  knowing  they  would  be  too  wise  to 
overdrink  at  the  trough,  promising  them  grain  later. 

Mormon  tiptoed  heavily  out  on  the  creaking  porch 
with  a  husky,  "Hush!" 

"What  fo'?" 

"Molly's  asleep.    'Sisted  on  waitin'  up  for  you." 

"Well,  we're  here,  ain't  we?"  demanded  Sam. 
"Me,  I  got  a  scrape  in  my  arm  an'  some  son  of  a  wolf 
spiled  my  saddle.  Sandy,  he  sorter  evened  up  fo'  it." 

"Bleedin'?"  asked  Mormon. 

"Nope.  Tied  my  bandanner  round  it.  Cold  air 
fixed  it.  Shucks,  it  ain't  nuthin'!  Sandy's  got  a 
green  kale  plaster  fo'  it.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  got 
ninety  bucks  myse'f." 


76  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"You  woh?" 

"Did  we  win?    Wait  till  we  show  you." 

Molly  met  them  as  they  went  in,  her  eyes  wide  open, 
all  sleep  banished. 

"Was  it  a  luck-piece?"  she  demanded. 

Sandy  produced  the  package  of  bills,  divided  it, 
shoved  over  part. 

"Your  half,"  he  said.  "Five  thousand  bucks. 
Bu'sted  the  bank.  An'  here's  the  'riginal  bet/'  He 
showed  the  gold  eagle,  put  it  into  her  palm. 

"Served  me,  now  you  take  it,"  he  said.  "I'll  git 
you  a  chain  fo'  it.  It's  sure  a  mascot  —  same  as  you  are 
—the  Mascot  of  the  Three  Star." 

She  looked  up,  her  "eyes,  cloudy  with  wonder  at  the 
sight  of  the  money,  shining  at  her  new  title.  They 
rested  on  Sam's  arm,  bandaged  with  the  bandanna. 

"There's  been  shootin',"  she  said.  "You're  hit. 
Oh!" 

"More  of  a  miss  than  a  hit,"  replied  Sam. 

Molly  turned  to  Sandy.  Anxiety,  affection,  some- 
thing stronger  that  stirred  him  deeply,  showed  now 
in  her  gaze. 


"Didn't  hardly  muss  a  ha'r  of  my  head.  Jest  a  liT 
excitement." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Sandy  gave  her  a  condensed  and  somewhat  expur- 
gated account  to  which  she  listened  with  her  face 
aglow. 

"I  wisht  I'd  been  there  to  see  it,"  she  said  as  he  fin- 
ished. 


IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK  77 

"It  warn't  jest  the  time  nor  place  fo'  a  young  lady," 
said  Sandy.  "Main  p'int  is  we  got  the  money  for  yo* 
eddication,  like  we  planned." 

The  light  faded  from  her  face. 

"Air  you  so  dead  set  for  me  to  go  away  ?"  she  asked. 

"See  here,  Molly/'  Sandy  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair,  talking  earnestly.  "You've  got  the  makin'  of 
a  mighty  fine  woman  in  you.  An'  paht  of  you  is 
yore  dad  an'  paht  yore  maw.  Sabe?  They  handed 
you  on  down  an',  if  you  make  the  most  of  yo'se'f, 
you  make  the  most  of  them.  Me,  I've  allus  been  trub- 
bled  with  the  saddle-itch  an*  I've  wanted  the  out-of- 
doors.  A  chap  writ  a  poem  that  hits  me  once.  It 
stahts  in, 

I  want  free  life  an'  I  want  free  air, 

An'  I  sigh  fo'  the  canter  afteh  the  cattle, 
The  crack  of  whips  like  shots  in  battle ; 

The  melly  of  horns  an'  hoofs  an'  heads 

That  wars  an'  wrangles  an'  scatters  an'  spreads, 
The  green  beneath  an'  the  blue  above, 

An'  dash  an'  danger  an*  life  .  .  . 

Somethin'  like  that.  I  mayn't  have  got  it  jest  right, 
but  that's  me.  The  chap  that  wrote  that  might  have 
writ  pahts  of  it  jest  fo'  me.  He  sure  knew  what  he 
was  writin'  erbout.  It's  called  In  Texas,  Down  by  the 
Rio  Grande.  I've  been  there.  Arizony  ain't  much 
differunt." 

"It's  called  Lasca"  put  in  Sam.  "I  seen  it  in  the 
movies.  Had  the  po'try  strung  all  through  it.  It 
was  a  love  story.  This  Lasca,  she " 


78  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Mormon  put  a  heavy  foot  over  Sam's  and  he  sub- 
sided. 

"So  you  see  I  lost  out  on  a  heap/'  said  Sandy.  "An' 
I'm  a  man.  I  can  git  erlong  with  less.  But  fo'  a  gel, 
learnings  a  grand  thing.  An'  there's  the  big  cities,  an* 
theaters,  fine  clothes  an'  fine  manners.  Like  livin'  in 
another  world." 

"Where  they  wear  suits  like  Sam's  spike-tail,"  said 
Mormon.  "I  mind  me  when  I  was  to  Chicago  with 
a  train  of  steers  one  time,  the  tall  buildin's  was  higher 
than  canon  cliffs.  On'y  full  breath  I  drawed  was 
down  on  the  lake  front  where  they  was  a  free  picter 
show  in  a  museum.  Reg'lar  storm  there  was  out  on 
the  lake;  big  waves.  Wind  like  to  curl  my  tongue 
back  down  my  throat  an'  choke  me." 

"Who's  hornin'  in  now?"  asked  Sam.  "Go  on, 
Sandy." 

"But,"  said  Molly,  wide-eyed,  "that's  the  life  /  like. 
I  mean  out  here.  I  don't  want  to  be  different." 

"Shucks,"  said  Sandy.  "You  won't  be.  Jest  pol- 
ished up.  Skin  slicked  up,  hair  fixed  to  the  style,  nails 
trimmed  an'  shined.  Culchured.  Inside  you'll  be  yore 
real  self.  You  can't  take  the  gold  out  of  a  bit  of  ore 
any  more  than  you  can  change  iron  pyrites  inter  the 
reel  stuff.  But,  if  the  gold's  goin'  to  be  put  into  proper 
circulation,  it's  got  to  be  refined.  Sabe  ?" 

"I  ain't  refined,  I  reckon,"  said  Molly  with  a  sigh. 
"I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  be.  I  can  allus  come  back, 
can't  I?" 

"You  sure  can." 


IN  THE  BED  OF  THE  CREEK  79 

"An'  there's  Dad.  He's  where  he  wanted  to  be.  I 
w'udn't  want  to  go  away  from  him." 

"He'd  want  you  to  make  this  trip,  sure,"  said  Sandy. 
"An'  that  settles  it.  You  go  off  to  bed  an'  dream  on 
it.  We  got  to  figger  out  where  you  go  an'  that'll  take 
some  time  an*  thinkin'.  I'm  some  tired  myse'f.  I've 
been  out  of  trainin'  lately  fo'  excitement.  Sam,  I'm 
goin'  to  soak  that  place  on  yore  arm  with  iodine. 
Good  night,  Molly." 

She  got  up  immediately,  went  to  Mormon  and  to 
Sam  and  gravely  shook  hands,  thanking  them. 

"You-all  are  damned  good  to  me,"  she  said.  Oppo- 
site Sandy  she  hesitated,  then  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  before  she  ran  from  the  room, 
with  Grit  leaping  after  her.  Sandy's  bronzed  face 
glowed  like  reflecting  copper. 

"Some  folks  git  all  the  luck,"  said  Mormon. 

"There  you  go,"  bantered  Sam,  stripping  his  arm 
for  the  iodine.  "You  been  married  three  times,  reg'- 
lar  magnet  fo'  the  wimmin,  an'  you  grudge  Sandy  pay 
fo'  what  he  done.  Me,  I  helped,  but  I  ain't  grudgin' 
him.  Though  I  sure  envy  him." 

"Yes,  you  helped  an'  left  me  to  home  to  count  fin- 
gers." 

"Shucks!  You  matched  for  it,  didn't  you?  An' 
didn't  you  have  yore  HT  session  with  Plimsoll  all  to 
yorese'f.  What's  eatin'  you?  You  want  to  be  a  five- 
ringed  circus  all  to  yorese'f  an'  have  all  the  fun.  Ef 
that  stuff  heals  like  it  smahts,  Sandy,  I'll  say  I'm 
cured  now." 


8o  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"It  don't  amount  to  much,  Sam,"  said  Sandy. 
"Yore  flesh  allus  closed  up  quick.  What  you  goin' 
to  do  with  yore  ninety  dollars  ?" 

"I  thought  of  buyin'  me  a  new  saddle.  Mine's 
spiled.  Couldn't  trust  that  tree  fo'  ropin'  now.  But 
I  figger  I'll  buy  me  a  fine  travelin*  bag  fo'  Molly. 
Loan  me  yore  catalogue,  Mormon,  so's  I  can  choose 


one." 


So,  bantering  one  another,  they  bunked  in. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PASO  CABRAS 

THEY  did  not  make  butter  on  the  Three  Star. 
Since  the  arrival  of  Molly  an  unwilling  and  re- 
fractory cow  had  been  brought  in  from  the  range  and 
half  forced,  half  coaxed  to  give  the  fresh  milk  that 
Mormon  insisted  the  girl  needed.  Until  then  evap- 
orated milk  had  suited  all  hands.  But  butter — to  go 
with  hot  cakes  and  sage-honey — was  an  imperative 
need  for  the  riders.  Riders  demanded  the  best  qual- 
ity in  the  "found"  part  of  their  wages  and  the  three 
partners  supplied  it.  The  butter  came  over  weekly 
from  the  Bailey  ranch  to  be  kept  under  the  spring 
cover  for  cooling.  Usually  the  gangling  young  Ed 
Bailey  brought  it  over  in  the  crotchety  flivver.  When 
Sandy  saw  the  sparsely  fleshed  figure  of  Miranda 
Bailey  seated  by  the  driver  he  winced  in  spirit.  This 
second  visitation  looked  like  mere  curiosity  and  gos- 
sip and  offset  the  opinion  he  had  begun  to  form  of  the 
spinster — that  she  was  sound  underneath  her  angular- 
ities and  mannerisms. 

It  was  twilight.  The  three  partners  and  Molly  were 
on  the  ranch-house  porch  after  supper,  and  there  was 
no  escape.  Sam  slid  his  harmonica  into  his  pocket 
silently  and  Mormon  groaned  aloud  as  the  rattlebang 

81 


82  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

car  chugged  up  and  was  braked,  shaking  all  over  until 
the  engine  was  shut  off.  Ed  Bailey  crossed  his  legs 
and  rolled  his  cigarette.  No  one  at  the  Three  Star 
had  ever  seen  him  alight  from  the  car,  Mormon  in- 
sisted he  ate  and  slept  in  it.  Miranda  nodded  at  the 
three  partners,  who  rose  as  she  came  up  the  steps. 

"You  sure  need  some  new  clothes,  child,"  she  said 
to  Molly.  "You  got  to  have  'em.  I  heard  you  was 
shot,"  she  went  on  to  Sam.  "That  sling  ain't  right 
You  should  have  it  fixed  so  yore  wrist  is  higher'n 
yore  elbow.  Who's  tendin'  it?" 

"It's  healin'  fine,"  said  Sam.  "I'm  pure-blooded  an' 
my  flesh  allus  heals  quick." 

Miranda  sniffed. 

"I  reckon  prohibition  helps  some,"  she  retorted. 
"Now  then,  I  come  on  business.  Sandy  Bourke,  you 
ain't  any  of  you  the  legal  guardian  of  that  child,  air 
you?" 

"Nothin'  illegal  in  what  we're  doin',  I  reckon." 

"I  didn't  ask  you  that.     You-all  ain't  got  papers?" 

With  the  question  she  wriggled  her  eyebrows, 
shifted  her  glance  and  generally  twisted  her  features 
in  what  Sandy  interpreted  plainly  enough  as  a  sugges- 
tion that  Molly  should  be  eliminated  from  the  talk. 
He  did  not  agree  with  the  spinster.  It  was  Molly's 
prime  affair  and  he  knew  that  she  would  resent  being 
treated  too  childishly  in  regard  to  her  own  concerns. 
Sandy  had  gentled  too  many  high-spirited  fillies  and 
colts  not  to  have  found  out  that  methods  that  apply 
to  well-bred  quadrupeds  are  generally  coefficient  with 


PASO  CABRAS  83 

humans.  He  shook  his  head  slightly  at  Miss  Bailey's 
signaling. 

"Jest  what's  the  idea?"  he  asked.  "Some  one  fig- 
germ'  on  makin'  her  stay  at  the  Three  Star  unpleas- 
ant? Fur  as  jest  gossip  is  concerned,  it  don't  have 
any  weight  with  none  of  us  an'  there  ain't  no  sense 
in  mentionin'  it." 

"  'Pears  you  ain't  givin'  me  over  an'  above  credit 
for  sense,"  said  Miranda,  a  bit  grimly.  "This  ain't 
gossip.  Ef  you're  bound  the  gel  is  to  sit  in  with  her 
elders  I'll  go  right  ahead.  I  got  a  lot  of  chores  to  do 
yet,  deliverin'  butter,  an'  the  car's  actin'  up  uncertain. 
Here  'tis.  I  got  it  direct  from  my  brother  who's 
heard  the  talk  that's  goin'  round.  You've  run  foul 
of  Jim  Plimsoll — or  he  foul  of  you,  which  is  more 
likely.  Plimsoll  an'  Eke  Jordan,  the  sheriff,  are  like 
two  peas  in  a  pod.  The  sheriff's  got  the  inside  of  local 
politicks,  so  fur.  When  we  wimmen  git  to  votin'  this 
fall  things  is  goin'  to  be  different.  Right  now,  he's 
in.  He  an'  the  courts  of  this  county  are  all  striped 
the  same  way.  Reg'lar  zebras.  Penitentiary  pattern 
'ud  match  their  skins.  Mebbe  some  of  'em  ought  to  be 
wearin'  it. 

"Now  for  the  meat  of  the  nut.  They're  figgerin* 
on  gettin'  control  of  the  gel  away  from  you-all. 
They'll  use  argymints  for  the  general  public  that  she's 
too  young  to  be  keepin'  house  for  three  unmarried 
men,  leastwise  three  men  who  ain't  livin*  with  their 
wives."  She  looked  pointedly  at  Mormon.  "They'll 
rouse  up  opinion  enough  for  a  change.  They'd  like 


84  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

to  app'int  a  guardian  of  their  own  kidney.  Mebbe  we 
can  block  that  if  one  of  us  comes  out  an'  offers  to  take 
her.  I'd  be  glad  to,  for  one,  an'  do  the  right  thing 
by  her." 

Molly  walked  over  to  Sandy's  chair  and  stood 
behind  it,  her  eyes  widening,  her  breath  beginning  to 
come  quickly. 

'There's  some  talk  about  her  father's  claims  over  to 
Dynamite  lookin'  up.  Party  of  easterners  over  that 
way  lately,  nosin'  around  to  find  out  owners,  lookin' 
up  assessment  work  an'  so  on.  Talk  of  a  boom.  I 
reckon  Plimsoll's  twigged  that.  Lawyer  Feeder,  who 
run  for  state  senator  an'  whose  record's  none  too 
dainty,  is  in  cahoots  with  Jordan  an'  Plimsoll.  Ed 
heard  they  figger  on  goin'  before  Judge  Vanniman, 
one  of  their  crowd,  to  get  an  order  of  court.  She's 
a  minor.  They  can  git  her  away  from  you.  If  we 
crowd  them  too  hard  for  them  to  app'int  one  of  their 
own  ring — an'  they're  figgerin'  on  Plimsoll,  he  claimin' 
to  be  her  father's  partner — they'll  likely  have  her  put 
in  some  institution.  An'  it's  goin'  to  be  done  right 
sudden.  I  w'udn't  wonder,  from  all  I  hear,  but  what 
they're  over  here  ter-morrer  with  a  court  order.  An' 
you  can't  fight  the  courts  's  long  as  they're  in  author- 
ity, the  way  you  fought  Jim  Plimsoll." 

Molly  stepped  out,  eyes  flashing,  fists  clenched,  talk- 
ing passionately.  "I  won't  go  with  'em.  I'll  run 
away.  They  can't  take  me.  Jim  Plimsoll  is  a  damned 
liar.  You  won't  let  'em  take  me?"  She  turned  to 
Sandy,  her  arms  stretched  in  appeal. 


PASO  CABRAS  85 

"No,  Molly,  I  won't.    Will  we,  boys?" 

"You  can  bet  everything  you  got  an'  ever  hope  to 
own  we  won't,"  said  Sam. 

"That  goes  for  me,"  echoed  Mormon,  but  he 
scratched  his  fringe  of  hair  in  some  perplexity. 

"Talk  don't  beat  an  order  of  the  court,"  said  Mi- 
randa Bailey.  "Mebbe  I  seem  sort  of  vinegary  to  you, 
child,  but  I'm  not  a  bad  sort.  My  brother  Ed  has  got 
somethin'  to  say  in  this  community  an'  I'm  likely  to 
control  a  few  votes  this  fall  myself.  I  figger  if  you 
came  home  with  me  to-day  we  c'ud  manage  to  git  you 
placed  with  us.  There's  been  tattle  about  you  stoppin' 
here.  You're  fifteen — an'  .  .  ." 

"Some  folks  is  jest  plumb  rotten,"  flared  Molly. 
"I'm  no  kid.  I  ...  oh,  if  Dad  was  alive!" 

Sandy  stood  up  and  slid  an  arm  about  her  shaking 
shoulders.  She  wheeled  and  buried  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  sobbing. 

"We're  powerful  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Bailey,  for 
what  you  told  us,"  said  Sandy.  "I'm  right  sure  you'd 
give  Molly  a  fine  home,  but  we  got  other  plans  an'  we 
aim  to  carry  'em  out.  Plimsoll's  a  skunk  an'  I'll  block 
his  game  about  the  mines  ef  they  amount  to  anything. 
Molly's  goin'  east  for  her  eddication.  She's  got 
plenty  money  to  git  the  best  that's  goin'  an'  she's  goin' 
to  have  it." 

"Then  you  better  git  her  'cross  the  county  line  be- 
fore many  hours  are  over/'  Miranda  Bailey  recog- 
nized something  better  than  mere  decision  in  Sandy's 
voice,  she  was  not  the  leading  suffragist  of  the  county 


86  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

for  lack  of  brains.  But  there  was  true  regret  in  her 
voice  as  she  went  on.  "I'm  sorry  she  don't  cotton  to 
the  idee  of  comin'  over  to  our  place.  A  woman  needs 
a  woman's  company."  At  the  diplomatic  concession 
to  her  maturity  Molly  gave  the  spinster  a  mollified 
glance.  Miss  Bailey  climbed  into  the  machine. 

"You  aim  on  takin'  her  out  of  the  county  to  the 
railroad  ter-morrer?"  she  asked.  "What  school  is 
she  goin'  to?" 

"We  ain't  settled  all  the  details,"  said  Sandy.  "But 
we'll  do  that  all  right.  We'll  git  ready  soon's  we  can. 
Meantime,  we'll  keep  our  eyes  peeled  ter-morrer 
against  any  order  from  Hereford." 

"Want  to  use  this  car?  I'll  bring  it  over  early.  Ed 
can  drive  it." 

The  gangling  youth  for  the  first  time  showed  an 
intelligent  interest  in  anything  outside  of  his  cigarette. 

"Fo'  time's  sake,  aunt,"  he  said,  "  'twouldn't  be  no 
manner  of  good  if  it  come  down  to  a  runnin'  chase. 
Nearest  depot's  fifty  mile*  across  the  county  line. 
Racin'  this  car  ag'in'  the  sheriffs  'ud  be  like  matchin' 
a  flea  ag'in'  a  grasshopper.  Dern  it,  she's  balked 
ag'in."  He  wrestled  with  the  crank,  conquered  it  and 
the  machine  shivered  like  a  hunting  dog  while  his 
aunt  adjusted  spark  and  gas.  She  nodded  to  him  to 
start  and  they  moved  off,  Miranda  waving  a  farewell 
as  she  called  out,  "Good  luck!" 

"Some  sport!"  announced  Sam.  "That's  the  kind 
of  woman  you  sh'ud  have  married,  Mormon." 

Molly,  excited  now,  demanded  audience. 


PASO  CABRAS  87 

"When  do  we  start?"  she  asked  eagerly.  "Will 
you  wait  till  they  come  out  from  Hereford?" 

"I  got  to  think  out  things  a  bit,  Molly,"  said  Sandy. 
"I  figger  we'll  git  a  start  on  'em,  ef  you  can  git  ready. 
In  the  mornin'." 

"I  haven't  got  much  to  take." 

"We'll  buy  you  an  outfit." 

"Horseback?" 

Sandy  looked  at  her  with  puckered  eyes. 

"Can't  tell  you  what  I  ain't  sure  of  myse'f,"  he 
drawled.  "One  thing  is  sure,  you  got  to  tuhn  in  an' 
git  a  good  rest.  Ef  we  slide  out  it  won't  be  all  a 
pleasure  trip.  I  reckon  Plimsoll  means  business.  An' 
he's  sure  got  the  county  machinery  behind  him  right 
now." 

"I  can  take  Grit?" 

"W'udn't  want  to  leave  us  somethin'  to  remember 
you  by?"  asked  Sandy.  "Somethin'  to  help  make  sure 
you'll  come  back  ?" 

"I'd  allus  come  back,  to  visit  Dad,"  she  said.  "But 
Grit  .  .  .  ?  I  don't  want  to  leave  Grit." 

"It  'ud  be  a  hard  trip  fo'  him  this  way,  Molly.  I 
ain't  sure  about  the  regulations  at  them  schools.  I 
reckon  the  best  way  w'ud  be  fo'  you  to  make  arrange- 
ments fo'  him  to  come  on  afteh  you  git  there." 

Molly  regarded  Sandy  soberly,  her  fingers  twining 
through  the  dog's  mane. 

"You'd  be  good  to  him — same  as  you  air  to  me? 
Oh,  I'm  jest  plumb  mean  to  ask  you  that.  I  know  you 
w'ud.  He's  goin'  to  be  jest  as  lonesome  as  me  for  a 


88  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

bit,  ain't  you,  Grit?  He  allus  slep'  with  me,  cuddlin' 
up,  an' "  She  gulped,  straightened. 

"Good  night,"  she  said.     "Come,  Grit." 

The  three  men  sat  silent  for  a  moment  or  two  after 
she  left. 

"She's  sure  a  stem-winder,"  said  Mormon  presently. 
"How  you  goin'  to  fix  to  git  her  away,  Sandy? 
PlimsolFll  be  hotter  n  a  bug  on  a  hot  griddle." 

"I  got  a  plan  warmin'  up,"  said  Sandy.  "Nearest 
to  the  county  line  is  west  through  the  Cabezas  Range. 
Only  two  gaps,  Paso  Cabras,  an'  the  Bolsa." 

"But  the  Bolsa     .      .      . "  started  Sam. 

Sandy  checked  him. 

"I  know.  Listen!  I  aim  to  git  to  the  railroad  an* 
then  me  an'  Molly '11  make  for  New  Mexico." 

"Huh!" 

"You  guessed  it,  Mormon.  For  the  Pecos  River 
an'  Boville  an*  the  Redding  Ranch.  I  reckon  Barbara 
Redding'll  handle  the  thing.  She'll  git  Molly  her  out- 
fit an'  she'll  know  all  about  the  right  schools." 

Mormon  brought  his  hand  down  on  Sam's  thigh 
with  a  sounding  whack. 

"Bern  me,  ef  he  ain't  the  wise  oP  son  of  a  gun/'  he 
cried  delightedly.  "Sure!" 

"It's  the  thing/'  assented  Sam,  rubbing  himself, 
"but  you  don't  have  to  break  my  laig  over  it.  Sandy, 
you  sure  use  yo'  brains." 

Barbara  Redding,  once  Barbara  Barton  of  the  cele- 
brated Curly  O,  was  a  bright  star  in  the  mutual  firma- 
ment of  the  Three  Star  partners.  They  had  all  worked 


PASOCABRAS  89 

together  on  the  Curly  O  in  the  old  days.  Sandy  had 
been  foreman  there.  Once  he  had  rescued  Barbara 
Barton  from  horse  rustlers  with  a  grudge  against  her 
father  and  once  again  he  had  rendered  her  even  greater 
service  when  members  of  the  same  crowd  kidnapped 
her  two-year-old  son  whom  Barbara  Redding  had 
brought  on  a  visit  to  his  grandfather.  Sandy  had 
trailed  alone  and  brought  in  the  "HT  son  of  a  gun,'' 
as  he  styled  the  youngster.  There  was  little  that  Bar- 
bara Redding  and  her  husband,  wealthy  rancher, 
would  not  do  for  Sandy. 

"I've  got  an  itch  to  give  PHmsoll  an'  his  pals  a 
run  fo'  their  money,"  went  on  Sandy.  "An'  here's 
the  way  I  figger  to  do  it,  in  the  rough.  See  what  you 
all  think  of  it." 

Subdued  guffaws  rose  from  the  porch  in  through 
the  open  window  of  the  room  where  Molly  Casey  lay 
wide  awake,  the  dog  beside  her.  Presently  she  heard 
the  martial  strains  of  Sam's  harmonica,  cuddled  under 
his  big  mustache,  played  one-handed.  He  was  play- 
ing an  air  that  he  had  dedicated  to  Sandy.  Vaguely  it 
comforted  her. 

"They're  good"  she  said  to  Grit.  "An'  they've  fig- 
gered  out  something  or  they  w'udn't  be  actin'  that- 
away.  You  an'  me  got  to  be  game." 

Sandy  smoked  his  cigarette  and  Mormon  lolled  in 
his  chair,  while  Sam  breathed  out  his  melody  into 
the  night  that  was  very  still  and  very  quiet,  with  the 
great  white  stars  burning  rayless.  The  tune  swelled 
triumphantly. 


90  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Behold  El  Capitan, 

Notice  his  misanthropic  stare, 

Look  at  his  independent  air; 
And  match  him  if  you  can, 

He  is  the  champion  beyond  compare. 

It  was  a  tribute  to  the  strategy  of  Sandy  Bourke, 
the  D'Artagnan  of  the  Three  Musketeers  of  the 
Range,  whereof  Mormon  was  surely  Porthos,  if  Sam 
was  hard  to  recognize  as  Aramis.  "One  for  all  and 
all  for  one"  was  their  motto,  and  neither  Mormon 
nor  Sam  doubted  for  an  instant  that  Sandy  would 
win.  Sandy,  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette,  was 
not  so  sure  but  equally  complacent. 

Next  morning,  breakfast  over  before  the  sun  was 
well  above  the  peaks,  while  desert  birds  were  still  ris- 
ing, twittering  shrill  welcome  to  the  dawn,  Sandy 
went  about  humming  snatches  of  cowboy  songs  just 
above  his  breath  as  he  oversaw  the  arrangements  for 
the  exodus  that  was  to  be,  not  so  much  a  flight,  as  a 
deliberately  calculated  laying  of  a  trail  for  the  pursuit. 
So  might  an  old  dog  fox,  sure  of  his  speed  and  wis- 
dom, trot  leisurely  across  a  field  in  full  sight  of  the 
pack.  Sandy  had  no  intention  of  waiting  until  the 
lawhounds  arrived,  he  needed  a  start  against  the  handi- 
cap of  high-powered  cars.  He  was  in  high  humor  as 
the  buckboard  was  greased,  a  team  of  buckskins  given 
a  special  feed  and  a  rub-down,  and  various  articles 
gathered  for  transportation.  Among  these  were  a 
spool  of  barbed  wire  and  a  dozen  fence  posts. 


PASO  CABRAS  91 

"I'm  a  rollickin',  rovin'  son  of  a  gun 
Of  a  roamin'  gambolier;" 

sang  Sandy,  lights  dancing  in  his  gray  eyes.  Sandy 
was  not  old — a  little  short  of  thirty — but  he  was  gen- 
erally mature,  suggesting  deliberation  of  mind  if  not 
of  action.  This  morning  youth  was  his,  rollicking, 
devil-may-care  youth  that  showed  in  his  walk,  the  set 
of  his  shoulders,  his  smile. 

His  spirit  was  infectious.  Four  riders,  jumping  to 
his  orders,  tossed  badinage  among  one  another  like  a 
ball.  Mormon  and  Sam,  seated  on  the  top  rail  of  the 
corral  fence,  openly  admired  their  partner. 

"Like  old  times,  Mormon?"  suggested  Sam. 

"Sure  is.  I  reckon  we'll  have  some  fun  'fore  the  day's 
out.  Sandy  can  cert'nly  scheme  out  the  scenarios." 

"The  what?" 

"The  scenarios,"  repeated  Mormon  loftily.  "I  got 
that  out  of  a  moving  pitcher  magazine  down  to  Here- 
ford. It's  the  word  fo'  the  plot  of  the  story.  Sabe?" 

"Huh!  I  reckon  them  movin'  pitcher  shooters  'ud 
have  to  move  some  to  git  all  that's  movin'  this  trip. 
Got  yore  gun  oiled  up,  Mormon  ?  Here's  Molly." 

Molly  came  out  on  the  porch  carrying  a  small  grip 
packed  with  her  few  belongings,  Grit  beside  her. 
Sandy  nodded  to  her,  busy  giving  instructions  to  two 
riders.  Mormon  and  Sam  waved  and  she  went  over 
to  them,  swinging  up  to  the  rail  beside  them. 

"Jim,"  said  Sandy,  "I  want  you  should  ride  out 
to'ards  Hereford  an'  hide  out  atop  of  Bald  Butte.  You 


92  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

don't  need  to  stay  there  any  later  than  noon.  Take 
a  flash-glass  with  you.  If  any  of  the  sheriff's  crowd 
comes  erlong,  any  one  who  looks  like  he  might  be 
servin'  papers,  sabe,  you  flash  in  a  message.  Make  it 
a  five-flash  fo'  anything  suspicious,  a  three-flash  fo' 
any  one  shackin'  this  way,  even  if  you  figger  they're 
plumb  harmless." 

"Seguro,  Miguel."  With  the  slang  phrase,  Jim,  an 
upstanding  young  chap,  despite  his  horse-bowed  legs, 
walked  over  to  the  bunk-house  for  flash-mirror  and 
gun,  came  back  to  his  already  caught-up  and  saddled 
horse,  turned  stirrup  and  set  foot  in  it,  caught  hold 
of  mane  and  horn,  beat  the  quick  swirl  of  his  pony 
sidewise  with  the  fling  of  leg  over  cantle  and  went 
streaming  off  for  the  Bald  Butte  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 
Sandy  called  to  Buck  Perches,  oldest  of  his  riders, 
whose  exposed  skin  matched  the  leather  of  his  saddle. 

"Buck,  ef  any  visitors  arrives  while  we're  gone,  you 
entertain  'em  same  as  I  w'ud.  I  w'udn't  be  surprised 
but  what  Jim  Plimsoll  Jud  be  moseyin'  erlong,  with 
Sheriff  Jordan  an'  mebbe  one  or  two  mo'.  Mo'  the 
merrier.  They'll  be  lookin'  fo'  me  an'  Miss  Molly  with 
some  readin'  matter  that's  got  a  seal  to  the  bottom  of 
it.  We  won't  be  to  home.  You'll  be  the  only  one  to 
home  'cept  Pedro  an'  Joe.  They've  got  their  instruc- 
tions to  know  nothin'.  They  ain't  supposed  to  know 
nothin'.  You — you've  stayed  to  the  ranch  to  do  some 
fixin'  of  yore  saddle.  Started,  but  come  back  when 
yore  cinch  bu'sted.  Sabe?  All  the  rest  of  the  riders 
is  on  the  range  'tendin'  business.  When  they  left,  an' 


PASO  CABRAS  93 

when  you  left  with  'em.  me  an'  Mormon  an'  Sam, 
with  Miss  Molly,  was  all  here.  So  you  supposed. 
Don't  let  >m  think  yo're  planted  to  feed  'em  info'- 
mation." 

Buck  nodded,  solemn  as  an  image,  his  dark  eyes 
twinkling  a  little. 

"I'm  real  pleasant  to  the  sheriff  an'  sort  of  indiffer- 
ent to  this  here  Plimsoll  person  ?"  he  suggested. 

"Let  'em  size  up  the  thing  fo'  themselves.  They'll 
find  Pronto  in  the  corral,  also  Sam's  roan,  which  they 
know  is  our  usual  mounts.  If  they  don't  sabe  the 
buckboard's  gone,  which  they  probably  will,  knowin' 
this  outfit  fairly  well,  an'  the  sheriff  not  bein'  a  dumb- 
head; lead  up  to  it.  Then  you  might  horn  it  out  of 
Pedro  that  he  thinks  we  started  erbout  ten  o'clock  an' 
leave  it  to  them  to  foller  trail.  It'll  be  plain  enough. 
We'll  take  care  of  the  rest.  Up  to  you,  Buck,  to  act 
natcherul." 

"I'll  sure  do  that.     I  sabe  the  play." 

"Then  we'll  light  out  soon's  we're  packed.  Mor- 
mon, git  the  grub  an'  water  aboard.  Sam,  help  me 
with  the  rest  of  the  truck.  Got  yore  war-bag,  Molly  ?" 

"I  haven't  said  good-by  to  Dad,  or  Grit,"  she  said. 

Sandy  nodded.  "Reckon  you'd  like  to  do  that 
alone.  Suppose  you  take  Grit  with  you  to  the  spring 
an'  then  leave  him  up  in  yore  room." 

"He  knows  I'm  goin'.  I  told  him  last  night,  but  he 
knew  it  'thout  that."  Molly  spoke  in  a  monotone. 
She  was  pale  and  her  eyes  showed  lack  of  sleep  but 
she  had  fought  the  thing  out  with  herself  and  she  was 


94  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

going  to  be  game.  She  gave  Sandy  her  grip  and 
walked  off  toward  the  cottonwoods.  Grit  nosed  along 
in  her  shadow,  his  muzzle  touching  her  skirt. 

It  was  a  big  load  for  the  buckboard  with  Mormon 
and  Sam  in  the  back  seat  crowded  by  the  piled-up 
baggage,  with  Sandy  driving  and  Molly  beside  him, 
flushed  a  little  with  growing  excitement.  But  the 
buckskins  were  sinewed  with  whalebone  and  used  to 
desert  work.  They  surged  forward  at  the  word, 
tightening  the  tugs  in  an  eager  leap  and  settled  down 
to  a  fast  trot,  out  across  the  prairie.  The  riders,  with 
the  exception  of  Buck,  and  Jim,  who  was  already  close 
to  the  butte,  which  was  midway  between  the  ranch  and 
Hereford,  loped  off,  two  and  two,  to  their  work,  not 
to  return  until  sun-down. 

It  was  still  cool,  the  dust  rose  about  them  in  eddies 
as  they  crossed  the  slowly  descending  slope  of  the  sink 
that  presently  mounted  again  toward  the  far-off 
range.  There  was  no  apparent  road,  but  Sandy  chose 
a  compass  course  between  the  sage  for  the  first  few 
miles,  then  skirted  the  mesquite.  Sam  leaned  forward 
once  when  the  buckskins  had  been  pulled  down  to  a 
walk  and  spoke  to  Molly. 

"See  that  notch  in  the  range?"  he  asked,  "oveh  to 
the  no'th,  where  the  shadder's  blue.  That's  Paso 
Cabras,  the  Pass  of  the  Goats.  Some  says  it's  named 
'cause  the  cliffs  is  fair  lousy  with  goats,  some  'cause 
on'y  a  goat  can  make  the  climb.  County  line's  five 
mile'  out  on  the  plain  beyond  the  pass.  Railroad  two 
mo',  at  Caroca." 


PASO  CABRAS  95 

"Are  we  goin'  through  the  pass  ?"  she  asked  Sandy. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  this  much,  Molly.  If  we  sh'ud 
decide  to  go  that  way  an'  strike  the  pass  afore  the 
sheriff  catches  up  with  us,  he'll  have  to  foller  afoot 
or  go  clean  round  the  mesa.  The  Goat's  Pass  ain't 
no  place  fo'  an  automobeel,  nor  an  airyplane  neither. 
Don't  believe  there's  a  level  spot  wider'n  five  foot  or 
bigger  than  that  much  square." 

Either  Mormon  or  Sam  sat  always  with  neck 
twisted,  watching  for  a  flash-signal  from  the  butte 
that  stood  up  clearly  in  the  crystal  atmosphere,  some- 
times distorted,  changing  hue  from  chocolate  to  indigo, 
never  seeming  to  get  any  farther  away,  just  as  the 
mesa  range  never  seemed  to  get  any  closer.  Some- 
times Molly  relieved  them  as  lookout,  but  hour  after 
hour  passed  without  sign. 

Close  to  noon  they  reached  a  watering  hole,  with 
water  none  too  cool  or  sweet,  but  still  welcome.  There 
the  buckskins  were  unhitched,  rubbed  down  and,  after 
they  had  cooled  off,  given  water  and  grain.  Save  for 
sweat  marks,  they  showed  little  sign  of  the  grueling 
trip  through  the  soft  dirt.  A  strip  of  lava,  half  a 
mile  of  ancient  flow,  lay  between  them  and  the  long 
up-slope  of  the  desert  to  the  mesa.  As  they  ate  lunch 
in  the  shadow  of  some  barrel  cactus,  Sandy  suddenly 
gave  a  grunt  of  satisfaction,  pointing  with  outstretched 
forefinger  to  the  butte.  Five  flashes  had  flickered  up. 
They  were  repeated.  Jim  had  signaled  a  suspicious 
party  on  their  way  to  Three  Star.  The  sheriff  was 
out  with  his  papers. 


96  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"We  got  five  hours'  staht,"  said  Sandy.  "Made 
close  to  thirty  mile'.  They've  got  thirty-five  to  make. 
Take  'em  mo'n  two  hours,  countin'  questions  with 
Buck.  Good  enough.  See  anything  of  the  boys,  Sam  ? 
They  ought  to  be  showin'  up.  I  told  'em  noon." 

"On  time,"  announced  Sam.  The  two  riders  who 
had  last  talked  with  Sandy  rode  out  of  a  straggling 
thicket  of  cactus  and  skirted  the  lava  flow.  Each 
led  a  spare  horse,  unsaddled. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BOLSA  GAP 

Q  HERIFF  JORDAN  had  a  high-powered  car  pur- 
>J  chased,  not  so  much  from  the  fees  of  his  office 
as  with  his  perquisites,  a  word  covering  a  wide  range 
of  possibilities,  all  of  which  the  sheriff  made  the  most 
of.  He  was  proud  of  his  car  and  proud  of  his  ability 
to  run  it  anywhere  at  record-breaking  speed.  It  car- 
ried an  extra  water  container  that  could  be  mounted 
on  the  running  board  for  desert  work,  an  extra  gaso- 
line and  oil  supply,  there  were  always  extra  tires 
strapped  on,  extra  spark  plugs  handy  and  his  batteries 
were  always  well  charged. 

"I  aim  to  make  her  efficient,"  said  Jordan,  "bein' 
she  represents  my  office.  That's  me.  If  I  needed  me 
an  airyplane,  I'd  get  me  one  to  hunt  the  outlaws  out 
of  cover,  an'  I'd  run  it  myself,  an'  run  it  right.  That's 
me,  Bill  Jordan!" 

Boaster  though  he  was,  there  was  little  doubt  as  to 
Jordan's  efficiency  or  his  courage.  He  brought  in  the 
criminals  he  went  out  to  get,  some  alive,  some  dead; 
prosecuted  the  first  with  zeal  and  collected  the  rewards 
with  alacrity.  The  trouble  was  that  he  did  not  always 
gx>  out  after  certain  individuals,  who  were  outside  the 

97 


98  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

law,  as  interpreted  by  the  people,  but  inside  it,  as  pro- 
tected by  the  political  ring  to  which  Jordan,  with  other 
prominent  officials,  belonged. 

Jordan  had  taken  up  his  brother-in-law's  grievance 
with  the  greater  zest  since  he  had  a  half-interest  in 
Plimsoll's  Good  Luck  Pool  Parlors,  a  share  that  had 
cost  him  good  money.  On  top  of  that  had  come 
Sandy's  flouting  of  him  on  the  bridge  in  front  of  the 
sheriff's  own  followers.  He  had  to  save  his  face, 
politically  as  well  as  personally. 

To  secure  papers  bringing  Molly  Casey  within  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  court  was  not  a  difficult  matter, 
but  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get  them  at  an  early  hour, 
since  court  was  not  in  session  and  the  judge  none  too 
eager  to  arise  of  a  morning.  But  Jordan  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  visit  of  Miranda  Bailey  to  the  Three  Star 
and  he  pressed  matters  with  no  special  expedition, 
though  he  characteristically  wasted  no  time. 

Armed  with  the  necessary  warrant,  backed  by  an 
assurance  that,  unless  some  extraordinary  howl  went 
up,  the  girl  would  be  given  into  the  custody  of  Jim 
Plimsoll  as  guardian,  by  virtue  of  his  claim  to  partner- 
ship with  her  father,  the  sheriff,  Plimsoll  and  two 
others,  all  three  deputized  for  the  occasion,  started  the 
car  from  Hereford  at  a  quarter  of  twelve,  after  an 
early  lunch.  They  passed  the  butte  where  Jim  lay 
prone  atop  without  noticing  the  flashes  he  shot  into 
the  sky.  At  a  few  minutes  after  twelve  they  reached 
Three  Star  where  Buck,  seated  on  the  porch,  his  sad- 
dle astride  a  sawhorse,  stitched  away  at  a  cinch. 


BOLSA  GAP  99 

Buck  played  his  part  well,  allowing  Jordan  to  fer- 
ret out  information  to  his  own  satisfaction.  It  ap- 
peared plain  that  all  three  partners  had  taken  flight 
with  the  girl  in  the  buckboard.  Sandy's  pinto  and 
Sam's  roan  were  in  the  corral.  Jordan  overlooked  one 
thing,  the  counting  of  saddles,  though  that  would  not 
have  been  an  easy  determination. 

"Some  one  tipped  this  thing  off,"  he  said  sternly 
to  Buck.  "Who  was  it?" 

"Meanin'  this  visit's  offishul?"  asked  Buck. 
"What's  it  fo',  Sheriff?  Moonshine  or  hawss  steal- 
in'?"  He  spoke  in  a  jesting  note,  his  weathered  face 
impassive  as  the  shell  of  a  walnut,  but  Plimsoll 
scowled,  noting  the  turn  of  Buck's  bland  countenance 
in  his  direction  for  the  first  time.  It  was  whispered 
that  the  brands  on  Plimsoll' s  horse  ranch  were  not 
those  usually  known  in  the  county,  nor  even  in  the 
counties  adjoining.  There  were  rumors,  smothered  by 
Plimsoll's  stand  with  the  authorities,  of  bands  of 
horses,  driven  by  strangers,  arriving  wearied — and 
always  by  night — at  his  corrals. 

"It  don't  matter — to  you — what  it's  for,"  answered 
Jordan.  "I'll  overhaul  'em  an'  bring  'em  back.  Cross- 
in'  the  county  line  won't  do  'em  any  good  with  this 
warrant.  Ef  they  try  hide-out  tactics  or  put  up  a 
scrap,  it'll  be  kidnappin'  an'  that's  a  penal  offense." 

Buck  whistled. 

"Thought  you  wasn't  goin'  to  let  me  know,"  he 
said.  "It's  the  gel." 

"Who's  been  here  to  tip  it  off?"  asked  Jordan. 


TOO  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Buck  looked  at  him  serenely,  took  a  plug  of  chew- 
ing from  his  hip  pocket,  took  his  knife,  opened  it  delib- 
erately and  slowly  cut  off  a  corner  of  the  tobacco. 

"Search  me,"  he  drawled.  "Me,  I  don't  stay  up  to 
the  house." 

Jordan,  temporarily  discomfited  but  still  confident 
of  bringing  back  his  quarry,  marked  the  trail  of  the 
buckboard  in  the  alkali  soil,  noted  the  hoof-prints  of 
the  diverging  riders  and  nodded  with  the  semi-smile 
and  half  closed-eyes  of  conscious  superiority.  He 
had  already  elicited  apparently  reluctant  information 
from  Pedro  as  to  the  four  passengers  in  the  buckboard. 
Buck  had  been  more  reticent.  To  the  sheriff  Buck's 
reticence  betokened  desire  to  cover  the  fugitives.  He 
fancied  that  Pedro's  testimony  was  the  result  of  Jor- 
dan's own  cleverness  in  cross-questioning.  Joe 
resorted  to  "no  sabes." 

"You  'tendin'  ranch?"  Jordan  asked  Buck,  at  last. 

"Yep.    Till  I  git  fresh  orders." 

"I'll  bring  you -back  those  orders,  also  yore  bosses, 
before  sun-down." 

Buck  permitted  himself  his  first  grin. 

"You'll  have  to  go  some,"  he  said.  "Coin'  to  bring 
'em  back  in  irons?  Figgerin'  on  abduction?" 

Jordan  gave  no  hint  of  how  Buck's  shaft  might  have 
targeted  his  intentions,  but  climbed  into  the  car  and 
started  it.  The  powerful  machine  went  lunging 
through  the  soft  dirt,  following  the  blurry  trail  of  the 
buckboard's  iron  tires,  throwing  up  dust  as  a  fast 
launch  churns  spray. 


BOLSA  GAP  101 

After  leaving  the  Three  Star  all  semblance  of  road 
vanished.  The  alkaline  soil  was  almost  as  fine  as 
flour,  and  deep.  This  and  the  fear  of  losing  the  trail 
kept  the  machine  down  to  a  limit  that  would  have 
been  ridiculous  on  a  real  road  but  represented  fast 
work  on  the  desert.  The  water  boiled  in  the  radiator 
from  the  heat  of  the  toiling  engine  and  Jordan 
stopped,  replenished,  reoiled.  Reaching  the  lava  strip 
where  the  buckboard  had  halted  for  water  and  the 
noon  meal,  they  found  the  trail  skirting  the  flow  to- 
ward the  south.  The  main  mass  of  the  mesa,  broken 
up  into  gorges,  gaps,  stairway  cliffs,  marked  by  pur- 
ple shadows,  scanty  in  the  early  afternoon  but  grad- 
ually widening,  was  about  fifteen  miles  away.  Jordan 
braked  his  car.  He  ignored  the  water  in  the  spring. 
His  spare  supply  was  still  ample  and  was  distilled,  not 
alkaline. 

He  turned  to  one  of  his  deputies. 

"Which  way  do  you  figger  they're  heading  Phil?" 
he  asked.  "Is  there  a  cut  or  a  pass  through  the  mesa  ?" 

"Dam'fino.  Mesa's  all  cut  up,  but  it's  sure  a  God- 
forsaken country.  Nothin'  but  rock  an'  clay  an'  cac- 
tus. No  one  ever  goes  there.  I  reckon  I  know  as 
much  of  this  country  as  most  an*  I  sure  never  explored 
the  dump.  One  thing's  sure  an'  certain.  Them  fellers 
from  the  Three  Star  usually  know  where  they  are 
headin'.  Trail's  plain." 

"Sure  is."  But  Jordan  scratched  his  head  a  trifle 
doubtfully.  If  Sandy  Bourke  and  his  chums  had  been 
tipped  off,  this  trail  was  a  little  too  plain  to  be  true. 


102  £IMROCK  TRAIL 

Presently,  as  the  machine  plowed  on  south,  they  struck 
a  patch  of  desert  where  the  rock  surfaced  out  and 
showed  no  trace  of  hoof  or  tire.  Jordan  stopped  the 
car  and  the  four  got  out,  casting  around,  expecting 
that  this  outcropping  had  been  used  as  a  device  to 
throw  off  the  pursuit.  Fairly  fresh  horse  droppings 
showed  that  the  buckboard  had  held  to  its  course  and, 
the  rock  passed,  the  trail  showed  plain  again,  curving 
in  toward  the  broken  wall  of  the  mesa,  leading  toward 
a  cleft  that  was  plainly  distinguishable. 

"That's  Bolsa  Boquete,"  announced  the  deputy 
named  Phil.  "I  never  went  through  it." 

"What's  it  mean— the  name?" 

"Boquete's  gap.  Bolsa's  money — not  jest  the  same 
as  dinero.  It's  the  word  they  have  on  the  bank  win- 
ders down  in  Mexico.  Exchange." 

"Money  Gap?  That  don't  tell  us  a  thing,"  said 
Jordan.  "But  I'll  bet  my  star  they've  gone  through  it 
all  right.  We  ought  to  be  not  much  more'n  an  hour 
behind  them." 

"They're  on  about  us  getting  the  papers,"  said  Plim- 
soll.  He  had  not  said  much  on  the  trip  so  far.  "Too 
much  talk  nowadays.  You  can't  whisper  in  a  dugout 
but  what  the  news  is  all  over  the  county  inside  of 
twenty  minutes.  Bourke  sabes  that  getting  the  girl 
out  of  the  county  won't  do  any  good ;  he  aims  to  get 
her  out  of  the  state  and  any  Arizona  court  or  sheriff 
jurisdiction.  He's  the  brains  of  the  outfit.  We've 
got  to  get  her,  Jordan." 

"You  ain't  tellin'  me  a  thing  I  don't  know,  Jim. 


BOLSA  GAP  103 

But  there's  one  thing  you  can  tell  me.    Is  that  tip  you 
got  about  Dynamite  a  sure  one?" 

Plimsoll,  sitting  beside  Jordan,  flashed  him  a  look 
of  ^contempt. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  chasing  this  girl  because  I'm 
stuck  on  her?  One  of  the  party  with  this  eastern 
crowd  dropped  into  my  place  and  talked.  Showed 
some  samples  and  I  had  a  good  look  at  them.  He  hap- 
pened to  leave  a  bit  or  two  behind  and  I  had  them 
assayed.  Here  is  where  I  get  back  the  money  I  put 
up  to  grubstake  Casey." 

Jordan  gave  him  a  grin  of  derision. 

"You  an'  yore  grubstake,"  he  jeered. 

Plimsoll  said  nothing  more. 

As  they  neared  the  gap,  translated  by  Phil  in  the 
unconsciousness  that  Bolsa  had  two  meanings  in 
Spanish,  Jordan  slowed  up. 

"No  shootin'  in  this  deal,"  he  warned.  "Come  to 
a  show-down,  Bourke  won't  buck  the  law  soon's  we 
show  papers.  So  long's  he  ain't  been  notified  the 
court  is  makin'  a  ward  of  the  girl  they  ain't  done 
nothin'  wrong.  But — if  he  resists,  that's  different." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  be  awful  anxious  to  start  shootin'," 
said  Phil.  "They  done  some  pretty  shootin'  at  the 
bridge  that  time.  Sandy  Bourke's  a  two-handed  lead 
flinger  an'  Soda-Water  Sam's  no  slouch.  Neither's 
Mormon.  Me,  I'll  be  peaceable  'less  it's  forced  on  me 
otherwise." 

They  entered  the  split  in  the  mesa.  The  cliffs  shim- 
mered in  the  heat,  their  outlines  fuzzy.  Branched  and 


104  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

pillared  cactus  showed  in  gray-green  reptilian  growths. 
The  soft  earth,  through  which  here  and  there  the  vol- 
canic cores  of  the  range  were  thrust,  seemed  as  if  it 
could  supply  the  paint  shops  of  a  nation  with  almost 
any  hue  desired,  ready  for  mixing  with  oil  or  water. 
Waves  of  heat  beat  between  the  walls  of  the  cleft. 
The  floor  was  fairly  smooth,  swept  clean  by  occasional 
cloud-bursts,  save  for  the  skeleton  of  a  tree  and 
another  of  a  too-far  wandering  steer,  both  blanched 
white  as  the  alkali-crusted  boulders.  It  was  nearly 
level  going  and  the  car  pounded  along,  all  the  occu- 
pants looking  for  trail  sign.  The  mesa  corridor, 
nowhere  more  than  thirty  feet  wide,  twisted  and 
snaked,  three  hundred  feet  of  sheer  wall  on  either  side 
topped  by  sloping  cliffs  mounting  far  higher  toward 
the  actual  top  of  the  mesa. 

"Keep  an  eye  peeled  for  rain,  Phil,"  said  Jordan. 
"I'd  sure  hate  to  get  caught  in  here  with  a  cloud- 
burst." 

"Right,"  answered  Phil.  "I  c'ud  see  better  if  I  had 
a  drink.  Plimsoll,  you  got  somethin'  on  the  hip,  ain't 
you?" 

Plimsoll  produced  a  bottle  and  the  four  of  them 
drank  the  fiery  unrectified,  unstamped  liquor.  Ahead 
was  an  abrupt  turn.  Jordan  slowed.  Making  the 
curve,  a  fence  stretched  across  the  gorge,  reaching 
from  wall  to  wall,  a  four-strand  barrier  of  barbed- 
wire,  strung  on  patent  steel  posts.  Jordan  braked  with 
emergency.  The  sight  of  such  a  fence  in  such  a  place 
was  as  unexpected  as  the  sun-dried  carcass  of  a  steer 


BOLSA  GAP  105 

would  be  on  Broadway.  Plimsoll  and  Jordan  cursed, 
the  former  in  pure  anger,  the  latter  with  some  appre- 
ciation of  the  stratagem  for  delay. 

"We  can  tear  it  down  quicker'n  they  fixed  it,"  he 
said.  "I've  got  a  pair  of  nippers  in  the  tool  kit.  They 
can't  have  driven  in  those  posts  deep.  Come  on." 

A  voice  floated  down  to  them. 

"You  leave  that  fence  alone,  gents.  //  you  please. 
I  went  to  a  heap  of  trouble  puttin'  up  that  fence.  It's 
my  fence." 

They  looked  up,  to  see  Mormon  seated  on  the  top 
of  a  great  boulder  that  had  land-slipped  from  the  cliff 
into  the  gorge.  From  thirty  feet  above  them  he 
looked  down,  amiably  enough,  though  there  was  a 
glint  of  blued  metal  in  his  right  hand. 

"Hello,  Jim  Plimsoll,"  he  went  on.  "I  ain't  seen 
you-all  fo'  quite  a  while.  You  fellers  out  fo'  a 
picnic?" 

Jordan  advanced  to  the  foot  of  the  rock,  producing 
his  papers. 

"I  have  a  bench  warrant  here  to  bring  into  court  for 
the  appointment  of  a  proper  guardian,  the  child  Molly 
Casey,  she  being  a  minor  and  without  natural  or  legal 
protectors.  I've  got  yore  name  on  these  papers,  Mor- 
mon Peters,  as  one  of  the  three  parties  with  whom  the 
girl  is  now  domiciled.  I  warn  you  that  you  are 
obstructing  the  process  of  the  law  by  yore  actions. 
You  put  up  that  gun  an'  come  down  here  an'  help  to 
pull  down  this  fence,  illegally  erected  on  property  not 
yore  own.  Otherwise  you're  subject  to  arrest." 


io6  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"That  is  sure  an  awful  long  speech  fo'  a  hot  day/' 
said  Mormon  equably.  "But  I  don't  sabe  that  talk  at 
all.  Molly  Casey  ain't  here,  to  begin  with.  Nor  she 
ain't  been  here.  An'  I  don't  sabe  no  obstruction  of  the 
law  by  settin'  up  a  fence  in  a  mesa  canon  to  round  up 
broom-tails." 

One  of  the  deputies  snickered. 

"Broom-tails?"  cried  Jordan.  "That's  too  thin. 
There's  no  mustangs  hangin'  round  a  mesa  like  this, 
'thout  feed  or  water."  He  flushed  angrily.  He  was 
short-tempered  and  he  was  certain  the  fence  was  a  ruse 
to  gain  time,  with  Mormon  left  behind  to  parley.  It 
all  seemed  to  point  to  Sandy  Bourke  making  for  the 
railroad. 

"You  never  kin  tell  about  wild  hawsses,  or  even 
branded  ones,"  said  Mormon  pleasantly.  "Ask  Plim- 
soll.  He  picks  'em  up  in  all  sorts  of  places." 

Plimsoll  cursed.  Mormon  still  held  his  gun  con- 
spicuously, and  he  restrained  his  own  impulse  to  draw. 
Jordan  wheeled  on  the  gambler. 

"You  keep  out  o'  this,  Jim  Plimsoll,"  he  said.  "I'm 
runnin'  this  end  of  it.  He's  talkin'  against  time.  You 
come  down  an'  help  remove  this  fence,"  he  shouted  up 
at  the  smiling  Mormon,  "or  I'll  start  something.  It 
ain't  on  yore  property  and  it's  hindering  the  carrying 
out  of  my  warrant." 

"It  ain't  on  a  public  highway  neither,"  retorted  Mor- 
mon. "But  I'll  come  down.  Don't  you  go  to  clippin' 
those  wires  an'  destroyin'  what  is  my  property."  He 
slid  down  the  rock  and  commenced  to  unbend  the 


BOLSA  GAP  107 

metal  straps  that  held  the  wire  in  place.  Jordan  and 
one  of  his  men  followed  suit  with  pliers  from  the 
motor  kit.  The  job  took  several  minutes. 

"You'll  come  along  with  us,"  said  Jordan.  "You 
lied  about  the  girl  comin'  this  way.  I've  a  notion  to 
take  you  in  for  that.  But  I  reckon  you  can  go  back 
in  the  buckboard  with  yore  partners." 

"Reckon  I'll  travel  in  the  buckboard,  when  you 
catch  up  with  it,"  said  Mormon.  "But  I'll  come  erlong 
with  you  fo'  a  spell — of  my  own  free  will.  I  don't 
see  no  harm  in  takin'  the  gel  visitin'  anyway,"  he  con- 
cluded as  he  took  an  extra  seat  in  the  tonneau. 

Jordan  made  no  answer  but  started  the  engine. 
The  gorge  began  to  narrow  perceptibly,  its  floor 
slanted  upward  and  the  machine  labored  with  a  mix- 
ture that  constantly  needed  more  air.  The  way  zig- 
zagged for  half  a  mile  and  then  they  came  to  a  second 
fence.  No  buckboard  was  in  sight.  Beyond  the  wire 
the  pitch  of  the  ravine  showed  steeper  yet,  as  it 
mounted  to  a  sharp  turn.  Leaning  against  a  post 
stood  Soda- Water  Sam,  smoking  a  cigarette,  his  gun 
holster  hitched  forward,  the  butt  of  the  weapon  close 
to  one  hand.  Jordan  and  his  men  leaped  out  as  the 
car  stopped,  Mormon  following  more  slowly. 

"Afternoon,  hombres  all,"  said  Sam.    "Joy-ridin' ?" 

Jordan  wasted  no  more  explanations. 

"You  take  down  this  fence,"  he  fairly  shouted. 

"What  fo'?" 

"Ask  yore  partner." 

"Sheriff  claims  we're  cumberin'  the  landscape  with 


io8  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

our  HT  corral,  Sam/'  said  Mormon.  "He's  got  a 
paper  that  gives  him  right  of  way,  he  says.  Seen  any- 
thing of  Molly  Casey?" 

"Not  for  quite  a  spell.  Go  easy  with  them  wires, 
Sheriff.  Price  of  wire's  riz  considerable." 

The  second  barrier  down  and  the  car  through,  Jor- 
dan ordered  Sam  to  get  in  the  car. 

"Jump,  or  I'll  put  the  cuffs  on  you,"  he  said. 

"Not  this  trip,"  replied  Sam  coolly.  "No  sense  in 
my  climbin'  in  there.  Me  an'  Mormon's  through  with 
our  HT  job.  We'll  go  back  in  the  buckboard.  It's 
round  the  bend.  I  was  jest  goin'  to  hitch  up." 

Jordan  glared  unbelievingly,  yet  Sam's  words  car- 
ried conviction. 

"Yo're  sure  goin'  to  have  trouble  turnin'  yore  car 
right  here,"  Sam  went  on  imperturbably.  "Kind  of 
mean  to  back  down,  too.  It's  worse  higher  up.  Mat- 
ter of  fac'  the  gap  peters  out  jest  round  the  turn. 
This  is  Bolsa  Boquete.  Bolsa  means  purse,  Sheriff, 
one  of  them  knitted  purse  nets.  Good  name  for  it. 
Look  for  yo'self,  if  you  don't  believe  me." 

Jordan  and  Plimsoll  strode  on  up  the  pitch.  Mor- 
mon followed,  Sam  stayed  with  the  two  deputies. 
Around  the  bend  stood  the  buckboard  with  the  buck- 
skins in  a  patch  of  shadow  under  a  scoop  in  the  end- 
ing wall  that  turned  the  so-called  pass  to  a  box  canon. 

"I  told  you  the  gel  warn't  erlong,"  said  Mormon. 
"She  and  Sandy  was  with  us  fo'  a  spell.  But  they're 
goin'  visitin'  an'  they  shifted  to  saddle  way  back,  out 
there  by  the  spring  beside  the  lava  strip." 


BOLSA  GAP  109 

Mormon's  bland  smile  masked  a  sterner  intent  than 
showed  in  his  eyes.  Jordan,  furious  at  being  out- 
witted, dared  not  provoke  open  combat.  He  had 
nothing  on  which  to  make  arrest  of  the  two  Three 
Star  partners  and  he  was  far  from  sure  of  his  ability 
to  do  so  under  any  circumstances.  Mormon  hitched 
up  the  buckskins,  but  followed  the  sheriff  and  the 
scowling,  silent  Plimsoll  back  to  the  car. 

"See  that  notch,  way  over  to  the  no'th?"  said  Mor- 
mon, bent  on  exploiting  the  situation  to  the  full.  "I 
reckon  Sandy  and  the  gel's  shackin'  through  there 
about  now.  Hawss  trail  only.  'Fraid  you  won't  catch 
him,  Sheriff.  They  aim  to  ketch  the  seven  o'clock 
train  at  Caroca.  It's  the  on'y  pass  over  the  mesa.  If 
Sandy  had  knowed  you  wanted  him  he  might  have 
waited.  Why  didn't  you  phone  ?  Ninety  mile'  around 
the  mesa,  nearest  way,  an'  it  must  be  all  of  five  o'clock 
now,  by  the  sun." 

He  stopped,  puzzled  by  the  change  in  the  sheriff's 
face.  Chagrin  had  given  place  to  exultation. 

"Catch  the  seven  o'clock  train  at  Caroca?"  said 
Jordan.  "Thanks  for  the  information,  Mormon.  That 
schedule  was  changed  last  week  when  they  pulled  off 
two  trains  on  the  main  line.  The  train  leaves  at  nine- 
thirty  an',  if  I  can't  make  ninety  miles  in  four  hours 
an'  a  half,  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  my  car.  Stand 
back,  both  of  you.  No  monkey  business  with  my  tires. 
Cover  'em,  boys.  The  law's  on  my  side,  you  two  gab- 
bing word-shooters." 

He  handled  the  car  wonderfully,  backing  and  turn- 


i  io  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ing  her,  and,  while  Mormon  and  Sam  stood  powerless, 
the  former  crestfallen,  the  latter  sardonically  gazing  at 
his  partner,  the  machine  went  tilting,  snorting  down 
the  gorge. 

"You  sure  spilled  the  beans,  Mormon/*  said  Sam 
finally.  "I'd  have  thought  them  three  wives  of  yores 
'ud  have  taught  you  the  vally  of  silence." 

"I  ain't  got  a  damned  word  to  say,  Sam.  But  I'd 
be  obliged  if  you'd  kick  me — good.  Use  yore  heels,  I 
see  you  got  yore  spurs  on." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  PASS  OF  THE  GOATS 

IN  THE  throat  of  the  gorge  the  sun  shone  red  on  the 
tawny  cliffs.  The  trail,  a  scant  four  feet  wide  at 
its  best,  with  crumbled,  weathered  margin,  crept  along 
the  face  of  the  cliff  above  a  deep  canon  where  the 
night  shadows  had  already  gathered  in  a  purple  flood, 
slowly  rising  as  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  shifted 
upward,  not  yet  staining  the  summit. 

It  was  close  to  seven  o'clock.  Sandy's  lean  face 
was  anxious.  The  girl  drooped  in  her  seat  tired  from 
the  long  climb,  not  yet  inured  to  the  saddle.  The 
horses  traveled  gamely,  sure-footed  but  obviously  los- 
ing endurance.  Every  little  while  they  stopped  of 
their  own  accord,  their  flanks  heaving  painfully  in  the 
altitude. 

Sandy  had  only  once  crossed  the  Pass  of  the  Goats 
and  that  was  years  before.  There  had  been  washouts 
since  then.  Several  times  they  were  forced  to  dis- 
mount and  lead  the  nervous  beasts,  Sandy  doing  the 
coaxing,  helping  Molly  over  the  difficult  places.  He 
rode  a  mare  named  Goldie  and  the  girl  a  bay  with  a 
white  blaze  that  Sandy  had  chosen  for  the  mountain 
work  and  which  had  been  brought  to  them  at  the  lava 
strip. 

in 


112  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

The  mare  halted,  neck  stretched  out,  turning  it  to 
look  inquiringly  at  her  master.  A  sharp  incline  lay 
ahead,  the  path  little  better  than  one  made  by  the  goats 
for  which  the  pass  was  named.  Behind,  Molly's 
mount  followed  suit,  blowing  at  the  dust.  Sandy 
patted  the  mare's  neck  and  dismounted. 

"It's  late,  ain't  it?"  asked  Molly.  "Will  we  miss 
that  train?" 

"There's  others,"  answered  Sandy.  "Or,  if  there 
ain't  any  mo*  ter-night,  we'll  hire  us  a  car  an'  keep 
movin'.  Yo're  sure  game,  Molly;"  he  added  admir- 
ingly, "you  must  be  clean  tuckered  out." 

She  shook  her  head  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"I'll  be  glad  when  we  start  goin'  down,  fer  a 
change,"  she  admitted,  looking  into  the  gloomy  trough 
of  the  canon  through  which  the  night  wind  soughed. 

"I'll  tighten  up  yore  cinches,"  said  Sandy.  "Worst 
of  the  climb's  jest  ahead.  Then  we  start  to  drop 
down  t'other  side.  You  don't  have  to  git  off.  Trail's 
bound  to  be  better  once  we  git  atop  the  mesa  and 
start  down.  Mesa's  right  narrer,  as  I  remember. 
T'other  side's  away  from  the  weather.  There's  a 
canon  with  oak  trees  an'  a  stream  of  water."  He  tugged 
at  the  leathers,  his  knee  against  the  bay's  ribs  as  she 
grunted. 

"You  ain't  much  furtheh  to  go,  liT  hawss,"  he 
chatted  on.  "Downhill  all  the  way  soon  an'  then  a 
drink  to  wash  out  yore  mouth  an'  the  best  feed  in 
Caroca  fo'  the  pair  of  you." 

"Gits  dark  mighty  quick  up  here,"  said  the  girl. 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  GOATS  113 

A  great  cloud  was  ballooning  above  them,  like  a 
dirigible  that  had  lost  buoyancy  and  was  bumping 
along  the  mesa  ridge.  Its  belly  was  black,  its  western 
side  ruddy  in  the  sunset.  Sandy  viewed  it  apprehen- 
sively. In  superficial  survey  the  mesa  seemed  much 
like  the  stranded  caress  of  a  mastodonic  creature  left 
behind  when  the  waters  departed  from  these  inland 
seas.  A  hard  skeleton  of  igneous  rock,  with  clayey 
soil  for  flesh,  riven  and  seamed  and  pitted,  crumbling 
and  dusty  in  the  sun,  ever  disintegrating  with  wind 
and  water  and  frost.  Under  a  rain  the  trail  was 
slimy  as  a  whale's  back.  The  cloud  was  soggy  with 
moisture.  Bursting,  it  would  send  torrents  roaring 
down  every  ravine,  wash  out  weathered  masses  of 
earth,  sweep  all  before  it  as  it  gathered  forces  and 
rushed  out  on  the  desert,  leaving  the  main  canons 
carved  a  little  richer,  the  surface  of  the  soil  on  the 
sink  a  little  deeper,  against  the  time  when  men  should 
control  these  storm  waters  or  bring  the  precious  fluid 
up  from  underground  reservoirs  and  make  the  desert 
blossom  like  the  rose. 

Where  Molly  and  Sandy  rode  they  were  exposed  to 
the  first  drench  of  a  cloud-burst.  Deeper  in  the  pass, 
where  the  flood  would  be  confined,  their  chance  for 
escape  would  be  infinitesimal.  Even  on  the  heights  it 
would  be  precarious  unless  they  could  cross  the  remain- 
der of  the  up-trail  before  the  inevitable  downpour. 

Sandy  examined  his  own  cinch  and  tightened  it  be- 
fore he  mounted.  And  he  whispered  something  in  the 
mare's  ear  that  caused  her  to  lip  his  sleeve. 


114  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Let  yore  hawss  have  his  own  way,  Molly,"  he  said. 
"I'm  lettin'  Goldie  do  the  pickin'  fo'  the  lead.  Ready?" 

It  was  growing  cold  in  the  deepening  twilight,  the 
belt  of  sunshine  was  rapidly  climbing  toward  the  top- 
most palisades  with  the  purple  shadows  in  the  gorge 
mounting,  twisting  and  eddying  in  skeins  of  mist, 
twining  up  toward  them.  One  spire  ahead  glowed 
golden.  The  cloud  drifted  down  upon  it,  glooming 
and  glowing  on  its  sunset  side.  The  crag  pierced  it, 
ripped  it  as  it  glided  along,  like  the  knife  of  a  diver 
in  the  belly  of  a  shark.  A  cold  wind  blew  from  the 
riven  mass.  Then  came  the  hiss  of  descending  waters. 
There  was  neither  thunder  nor  lightning,  only  the 
steady  rush  of  the  rain  that  glazed  the  slippery  trail, 
hid  the  opposing  cliff  from  sight,  sheeting  it  with  dull 
silver,  pounding,  pitting,  beating  at  them  as  they  plod- 
ded doggedly  on,  almost  blinded,  trusting  to  the  in- 
stinct of  their  horses. 

Through  the  steady  patter  began  to  sound  the  sav- 
age voice  of  torrents  falling  over  cliffs,  rapids  rising 
and  surging  in  deep  gorges.  The  wetness  and  the 
cold  sapped  Molly's  vitality.  She  shivered,  her  flesh 
seemed  sodden,  her  hands  and  wrists  began  to  puff 
and  she  saw  their  flesh  was  purple  in  the  fading  light. 
She  rode  with  hands  on  the  saddle  horn,  her  head 
bowed,  water  streaming  from  the  rim  of  her  Stetson, 
the  thud  of  the  rain  on  her  tired  shoulders  heavy  as 
shot.  The  bay  slipped,  lurched,  scrambled  frantically 
for  footing,  hind  feet  skidding  in  the  clay,  haunches 
gathering  desperately,  heaving  beneath  her  to  the  ef- 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  GOATS  115 

fort  that  brought  him  back  to  the  trail.  She  saw 
Sandy  ahead,  dimly,  like  a  sheeted  ghost,  twisted  in 
his  saddle,  watching  her.  From  the  hips  down  he  was 
a  part  of  the  mare  he  rode,  from  waist  up  he  was  in 
such  exquisite  balance  while  keeping  his  individuality 
apart  from  the  horse  that,  despite  her  present  misery 
and  a  presentiment  of  coming  evil  that  was  beginning 
to  encompass  her,  Molly  realized  what  a  magnificent 
rider  he  was,  and  clung  to  his  strength  and  skill, 
sensing  the  comforting  power  of  his  manhood. 

To  her  right  was  the  cliff,  slimy  with  water,  the 
trail  so  narrow  that  now  and  then  her  elbow  dug  into 
the  soft  stuff.  To  the  left  was  blackness  out  of  which 
mists  ascended,  writhing,  like  steamy  vapors,  the  rain 
pelting  into  the  gulf,  far,  far  below;  the  thunder  of 
augmenting  waters.  Masses  of  broken  cloud  swept  on 
above  their  heads,  purple  and  crimson  and  orange  as 
they  streamed  across  the  summit  like  the  tattered  ban- 
ners of  a  routed  army.  The  light  rayed  upward  at  an 
acute  angle.  In  a  few  moments  it  would  be  dark.  But 
they  were  close  to  the  top.  The  mare  already  stood  on 
a  level  ledge  of  side-jutting  rock,  a  horizontal  protuber- 
ance that  marked  the  extreme  height  of  the  Pass  of 
the  Goats,  from  which  one  could  look  down  into  the 
canon  of  the  oaks  and  the  unfailing  stream. 

Sandy  heard  a  cry  from  Molly  and  saw,  through 
the  curtain  of  the  falling  rain,  the  wide-flared  nos- 
trils of  her  horse,  its  eyes  protruding  as  the  brute,  with 
the  ground  slopping  away  beneath  him,  slid  slowly 
down  toward  the  gulf,  the  girl,  her  weight  flung  for- 


n6  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ward  on  the  withers,  her  face  white  as  paper,  turning 
to  him  mutely  for  help.  It  was  a  bad  moment.  Sandy 
and  his  mount  stood  upon  an  island  in  a  shifting  sea. 
The  whole  cliff  seemed  working  and  crawling,  slither- 
ing down. 

He  had  no  space  to  turn  in,  no  chance  to  whirl  his 
lariat,  even  for  a  side  throw.  There  was  no  time  to 
spin  a  loop.  But  his  hand  detached  the  rope,  flying 
fingers  found  the  free  end  as  he  pivoted  in  the  saddle, 
thighs  welded  to  the  mare. 

"Take  a  turn  about  the  horn!"  he  shouted.  "Hang 
to  the  end  yo'se'f!"  He  sent  the  line  jerking  back, 
whistling  as  it  streaked  across  the  girl's  shoulders. 
She  clutched  for  it,  with  plenty  of  slack,  snubbed  it 
about  the  saddle  horn,  clung  to  the  end,  made  a  bight 
of  it  about  her  body. 

Sandy  spoke  to  the  mare. 

"Steady,  HT  lady,  steady!"  The  rope  was  about 
his  own  horn;  he  thanked  God  that  he  had  examined 
the  cinches  of  Molly's  saddle.  The  bay  was  cat-footed ; 
with  the  help  of  the  mare  Sandy  believed  he  could  dig 
and  scrape  and  climb  to  safety.  It  was  the  decision  of 
a  split-second  and  he  did  not  dare  risk  dragging  the 
girl  from  the  saddle  past  the  struggling  horse. 

He  felt  Goldie  stiffen  beneath  him,  braced  against 
the  strain  she  knew  was  coming.  The  taut  lariat 
hummed,  it  bruised  into  Sandy's  thigh.  Behind,  the 
bay  snorted,  struggling  gallantly.  They  were  poised 
on  the  brink  of  death  for  a  moment,  two — three — and 
then  the  mare  began  to  move  slowly  forward,  neck 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  GOATS  1 17 

curved,  ears  cocked  to  her  master's  urging,  while  the 
bay  sloshed  through  the  treacherous  muck,  found  foot- 
hold, lost  it,  made  a  frantic  leap,  another,  and  landed 
trembling  on  the  ledge.  Sandy  leaped  from  his  saddle 
and  caught  Molly,  sliding  from  her  seat  in  sheer  ex- 
haustion and  the  revulsion  of  terror,  clinging  closely 
to  him. 

"It's  all  right,  Molly  darlin',"  he  said  soothingly, 
"All  set  an*  safe.  Rain's  oveh  an*  stars  comin'  out. 
We're  top  of  the  pass.  We'll  git  down  inter  the  canon 
a  ways  an'  then  we'll  light  a  fire  an'  warm  up  a  bit, 
'fore  we  go  on." 

She  found  her  feet  and  cleared  from  his  hold,  gasp- 
ing for  recovery  of  herself. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  was  scared  an'  yet  I 
knew  you'd  pull  me  out.  I'm  plumb  shamed  of  my- 
self. Jest  like  a  damned  gel  to  act  that  way." 

"Shucks!  You  wasn't  half  as  scared  as  the  bay. 
Wonder  did  he  strain  himself?"  He  passed  clever 
hands  over  the  bay's  legs,  talking  to  it. 

"Yo're  all  right,  ol'  surelegs.  Right  as  rain." 
Goldie,  the  mare,  stood  stock-still  with  trailing  lariat, 
watching  them  intelligently  in  the  dusk  that  was  grow- 
ing quickly  luminous  as  star  after  star  shone  through 
the  flying  wrack.  A  clean,  strong  wind  blew  through 
the  throat  of  the  pass.  Sandy  recoiled  his  lariat,  gave 
Molly  a  hand  to  her  foot  to  lift  her  to  her  saddle, 
mounted  himself  and  they  rode  slowly  down.  The 
trail  was  in  better  shape  this  side,  though  half  an 
inch  of  water  still  topped  it.  The  turmoil  of  running 


n8  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

waters  far  below  burdened  the  night,  but  the  danger 
from  the  storm  was  over. 

Train  time  was  long  past.  Sandy  knew  nothing 
of  the  change  of  schedule,  but  he  was  confident  of 
winning  clear.  He  knew  a  man  in  the  little  town  they 
were  aiming  for  whose  livery  stable  was,  in  the  march 
of  the  times,  divided  between  horses  and  machines. 
There  he  expected  to  put  up  the  horses  until  they  could 
be  returned  to  Three  Star,  and  there  he  figured  on 
hiring  a  car  and  a  driver  if,  as  he  anticipated,  there 
were  no  more  trains  that  night.  He  believed  that 
Mormon  and  Sam  had  delayed  the  sheriff.  Probably 
the  latter  had  given  up  the  chase,  but  there  was  no 
telling.  Jordan's  best  attribute  was  his  pertinacity. 
They  should  lose  no  time  in  getting  out  of  the  state. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CAROCA 

AS  SANDY  had  promised,  there  was  a  wide-bot- 
tomed canon  where  great  oaks  grew  on  the  flats 
beside  the  unfailing  stream.  The  trees  were  only  vast 
shapes  in  the  starlight,  the  long  grass  was  wet  and 
clinging,  the  creek  spouted  and  tore  along  as  Sandy 
led  the  way  on  the  mare  to  a  shelving  bench,  a  place 
where  he  had  camped  once  long  before  and,  with  his 
out-of-doors-man's  craft,  never  forgotten.  Molly  was 
tired  almost  to  insensibility  as  to  what  might  be  going 
on,  soaked  and  chilled  to  limpness.  Sandy  got  her 
out  of  the  saddle  and  into  a  shallow  cave  in  a  sandy 
bank.  The  next  thing  she  knew  a  fire  was  leaping  and 
sending  light  and  warmth  into  her  nook. 

She  heard  Sandy  talking  to  his  mare.  Between  the 
range  rider  and  his  mount  there  is  always  an  under- 
standing born  of  loneliness,  close  companionship  and 
mutual  appreciation.  Sandy  was  certain  that  his 
ponies  understood  most  of  what  he  said,  and  they  were 
very  sure  that  Sandy  understood  them  thoroughly. 

"Used  yore  brains,  you  did,  HT  old  lady,"  said 
Sandy.  "Sure  did.  Can't  do  much  fo'  you  now. 
There's  a  HT  grain  left  fo'  you  an'  the  bay,  an'  we'll 
dry  out  these  blankets  a  bit.  Can't  let  you  stay  long 

119 


120  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

or  we'll  git  all  stiffened  up,  but  Chuck  Goodwin,  down 
to  Caroca,  he  knows  hawses  an'  he's  a  pal  of  mine. 
He'll  fix  you  with  a  hot  mash  an',  after  that,  anything 
on  the  menu  from  alfalfy  to  sugar.  The  pair  of  you. 
You  bay,  you,  dern  me  if  you  ain't  a  reg'lar  goat !  A 
couple  o'  pie-eatin',  grain-chewin',  antelope-eyed,  steel- 
legged  cayuses,  that's  what  you  are!" 

Molly  listened  drowsily  to  the  affection  in  his  voice. 
It  was  nice  to  be  spoken  to  that  way,  she  thought. 
Nice  to  be  looked  after.  Her  dad  had  been  fond  of 
her,  but  his  words  had  lacked  the  silk,  the  caress  that 
savored  the  strength,  as  it  did  with  Sandy.  She  snug- 
gled into  the  warm  heat-reflecting  sand  like  a  rabbit 
in  its  burrow. 

"Eat  this,  Molly,  an'  we  got  to  be  on  our  way." 
Sandy  was  handing  her  a  cupful  of  hot  savory  stew, 
made  for  the  trip,  warmed  up  hastily,  the  best  kind  of 
a  meal  after  their  strenuous  experience,  though  Sandy 
bemoaned  its  quality. 

"Figgered  you  an*  me  'ud  eat  on  the  Pullman  ter- 
night,"  he  said.  "But  this  snack'll  do  us  no  harm. 
We'll  git  a  cup  of  coffee  in  Caroca  if  there's  a  chance." 

She  gulped  the  reviving  food  gratefully,  strength 
coming  back  with  the  fuel  that  gave  both  warmth  and 
motive  power.  Soon  they  were  jogging  on  down  the 
wide  trough  of  the  canon  beneath  the  white,  steady 
stars,  through  scrub  oak  and  chaparral,  the  air  sweet 
scented  with  wild  spice,  through  slopes  set  with  sleep- 
ing folded  poppies  and  Mariposa  lilies,  past  cactus 
groves,  columnar,  stately,  mystic;  the  mesa  slopes  re- 


CAROCA  121 

ceding,  its  great  bulk  dim  mass,  the  twin  notches  that 
marked  the  Pass  of  the  Goats  hardly  discernible  against 
the  sky.  They  crossed  a  white  road,  unfenced  but  evi- 
dently a  main  source  of  travel  though  now  deserted. 

"County  line  runs  plumb  down  the  middle  of  the 
road,"  announced  Sandy.  "There's  the  lights  of 
Caroca  blinkin'  away  to  the  left.  Too  bad  we  missed 
the  train.  Sleepy?" 

"Some,"  she  admitted. 

"Me  too,"  lied  Sandy  companionably. 

Coming  down  from  the  mesa  he  had  talked  with 
her  about  Barbara  Redding,  how  welcome  she  would 
make  Molly  and  what  she  would  do  for  her.  Molly 
had  listened  silently.  Only  once  she  had  spoken. 

"Why  didn't  you  marry  her  'stead  of  that  Red- 
ding?" she  asked. 

Sandy  laughed,  whole-heartedly. 

"Don't  believe  she'd  have  had  me.  Never  figgered 
on  marryin'  anybody.  I'm  a  privateerin'  sort  of  a  per- 
son, Molly,  sailin'  under  my  own  colors,  that  means. 
I've  allus  had  the  saddle  itch  till  Mormon  an*  Sam  an' 
me  settled  down  to  the  ranch.  Never  had  time  enough 
in  one  place  to  fool  round  the  gels." 

"Sam  says  yo're  woman-shy?"  queried  Molly. 

"Mebbe  I  am.  But  it  ain't  the  way  a  dawg  is  gun- 
shy.  Must  be  the  horrible  example  Mormon's  set  up." 

"Don't  you  like  wimmen?" 

"Sure  do.  Admire  'em  pow'ful.  Never  met  the 
one  I'd  want  to  tie  to,  that's  all,  Molly  " 

"None  of  'em  pritty  enough?" 


122  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Pritty?  Shucks!  Looks  don't  count  so  all-fired 
much.  The  woman  I  most  admired  was  the  wife  of 
ol'  Pete  Holden,  a  desert  prospector  an'  drifter,  like 
yore  dad,  Molly.  She  was  old  an'  tough  an'  wiry, 
like  he  was.  I  don't  figger  she'd  ever  have  taken  a 
blue  ribbon  in  a  beauty  contest,  but  she  was  like  first- 
grade  linoleum,  the  pattern  wore  clean  through  an' 
the  stuff  was  top  quality.  She'd  drifted  with  Pete 
over  most  of  Idaho,  Colorado,  Wyoming,  Utah,  Ari- 
zony,  Nevada  and  paht  of  New  Mexico  an'  Texas,  an' 
she  warn't  jest  his  wife,  she  was  his  pal  an'  fifty-fifty 
partner.  Pete  said  the  on'y  time  he  ever  knew  her  to 
hold  out  on  him  was  once  in  the  Canon  Pintada  when 
he  woke  up  in  the  night  and  saw  her  pourin'  water 
out  of  her  canteen  into  his.  Nothin'  pritty  about  Kate 
Holden,  but  she  was  full  woman-size  from  foot  callus 
to  gray  ha'r,  back  to  back  with  Pete  all  the  time  she 
wasn't  standin'  side  of  him." 

"She  warn't  eddicated?"  asked  Molly. 

"She  was.  Some  thought  it  funny,  for  Pete  was  no 
scholar.  I've  listened  with  him,  more'n  once  when 
she'd  tell  us  things  about  plants  and  insects,  or  about 
the  stars,  things  we'd  never  dreamed  of.  They  say 
she  c'ud  play  the  pianny  an'  she  sure  c'ud  sing.  Ask 
Sam  about  that.  But  Pete  was  her  man  an'  she  was 
his  woman,  so  they  trailed  fine  together." 

"I  see,"  said  Molly.    "She  loved  him." 

There  was  a  peculiar  quality  to  the  tone  of  the  girl's 
voice.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Sandy  had  noticed 
it,  lately  wondering  a  little,  not  realizing  that  his  own 


CAROCA  123 

observation  was  a  recognition  based  upon  response. 
Now  he  figured  that  the  low  softness  of  her  speech 
was  due  to  her  tired  condition  and  a  little  wave  of 
tenderness  swept  him,  blent  with  admiration  of  her 
pluck.  Saddle-racked,  nerve-tried,  she  had  never  mur- 
mured, never  mentioned  the  trials  of  the  trail 

They  entered  the  little  town,  once  a  cattle  station, 
now  renamed  in  musical  Spanish,  Caroca, — A  Caress 
— a  spot  where  fruits  were  grown  and  shipped  and 
flowers  bloomed  the  year  round  wherever  the  water 
caressed  the  earth.  Sandy  rode  the  mare  into  the  liv- 
ery where  the  last  skirmish  between  hoof  and  rim, 
iron  and  rubber  tire  was  being  fought,  and  called  for 
"Chuck"  Goodwin. 

A  stout  man  came  out,  not  so  heavy,  not  so  big  as 
Mormon,  but  sheathed  in  flesh  with  the  armor  of  ease 
and  good  living.  He  peered  up  at  Sandy,  then  let  out 
a  shout. 

"You  long-legged,  ornery,  freckle-faced,  gun-pack- 
in'  galoot,  Sandy  Bourke!  Light  off  'n  that  cayuse, 
you  an'  yore  lady  friend.  Where  in  time  did  you-all 
drop  from?" 

"Come  across  the  mesa.  Like  to  git  washed  across 
through  Paso  Cabras,"  said  Sandy.  "Miss  Casey,  let 
me  make  you  'quainted  with  Chuck  Goodwin,  one  time 
the  best  hawss-shoer  in  the  seven  Cactus  States,  now 
sellin'  oil  an*  gasoline  at  fancy  prices,  not  to  mention 
machines  fo'  which  he  is  agent." 

"Got  a  few  oats  left  fo'  yore  hawsses,  Sandy.  Miss, 
won't  you  come  inside  the  office  ?  Where  you  bound, 
Sandy?" 


124  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"We  was  aimin'  to  catch  the  seven  o'clock  train 
east,  makin'  fo'  New  Mexico  an'  the  Redding  Ranch, 
where  Miss  Casey  is  to  visit  fo'  a  spell,  but  we  found 
the  trail  bad  an*  a  cloud-bu'st  finally  set  us  back  so  we 
quit  hurryin'  an'  loafed  in.  Chuck,  have  you  got  a 
machine  you  c'ud  rent  us,  with  a  driver?" 

"You  can  have  anything  I  got  in  the  place  with 
laigs  or  wheels,  an'  welcome.  Coin'  to  the  old  Red- 
ding Ranch?  Give  my  howdedo  to  Miss  Barbara,  or 
Mrs.  Barbara  as  she  is  now.  But — "  He  looked  at 
the  wall  clock.  "It's  a  quarter  of  ten.  Yore  train's 
been  altered  to  suit  main  line  schedules.  She  don't 
come  through  till  nine-thirty  an'  she's  gen'ally  late 
makin'  the  grade.  I  ain't  heard  her  whistle  yet.  I 
wouldn't  wonder  but  what  you  can  make  it.  Not  that 
I'm  aimin'  none  to  hurry  you." 

The  ex-blacksmith  reached  for  the  telephone  and  got 
his  connection. 

"Runnin'  twenty  minutes  late,"  he  announced. 
"Hop  in  my  car  an*  we'll  jest  about  make  her.  She 
don't  do  much  more'n  hesitate  at  Caroca  when  she's 
behind  time." 

He  hurried  them  out  on  the  street  to  where  a  car 
stood  by  the  curb.  Molly  and  her  few  belongings  got 
in  behind,  Sandy  mounted  with  Goodwin. 

"You'll  take  good  care  of  the  hawsses,  Chuck?"  he 
said.  "I'll  probably  be  back  for  'em  myse'f  in  three- 
fo'  days." 

"Seguro."  Goodwin  stepped  on  his  starter  and  the 
flywheel  whirred  to  sputtering  explosions.  Another 


CAROCA  125 

car  came  limping  down  the  street,  flat  on  both  rims 
of  one  side,  its  paint  plastered  with  mud,  one  light  out, 
the  other  dimmed  with  mire.  The  driver  called  to 
Goodwin. 

"Which  way  to  the  depot?" 

Goodwin,  his  hand  on  the  lever,  foot  on  the  clutch, 
was  astounded  to  hear  Sandy  hissing  out. 

"Don't  tell  'em.  Scoot  ahead  full  speed."  Then, 
over  his  shoulder  to  the  girl,  "Crouch  down  there, 
Molly."  Goodwin  was  still  a  man  of  action  and  he 
knew  Sandy  Bourke  of  old.  Out  came  the  pedal,  the 
gears  engaged  and  the  car  shot  ahead,  beneath  a 
swinging  arc  light.  Sandy's  hat-rim  did  not  suffi- 
ciently shade  his  face  or  Molly's  action  had  not  been 
swift  enough.  There  came  a  yell  and  a  string  of 
curses  from  the  crippled  car  which  backed  and  turned 
and  followed,  its  torn  treads  flapping. 

Goodwin  asked  no  questions  of  Sandy.  If  the  latter 
wanted  ever  to  tell  him  why  he  required  a  quick  exit 
out  of  Caroca,  or  why  he  was  followed,  he  could.  If 
not,  never  mind.  He  slid  his  gears  into  high  and 
dodged  around  corners  recklessly.  A  red  lantern 
showed  ahead  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  They  crashed 
through  a  light  obstruction  of  boards  and  trestles, 
overturning  the  lantern  and  plowed  on  over  rough 
stones. 

"I'm  mayor,"  said  Goodwin  with  a  grin.  "Breakin* 
my  own  rules  but  I  figger  that  broken  stone'll  bother 
7em  some.  We'll  chance  it." 

They  lunged  through,  regardless  of  tires  and,  be- 


126  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

hind  them,  the  pursuing  car  rattled,  lurched,  skidded. 
A  third  tire  blew  out  and  as  Goodwin  swung  a  corner 
with  two  wheels  in  the  air  the  sheriff's  machine 
smashed  viciously  across  the  sidewalk,  poking  its 
crumpling  radiator  into  a  cottonwood. 

"Brazen  bulls!"  shouted  Goodwin.  "There  she 
blows!  You  got  to  run." 

The  depot  was  ahead,  to  one  side  of  the  road-cross- 
ing. The  train,  its  clanging  bell  slowing  for  the  stop, 
ground  to  a  halt,  the  conductor  swinging  from  a  plat- 
form to  glance  at  the  "clear"  board.  He  waved 
"ahead"  as  Sandy  and  Molly  raced  up  and  clambered 
to  the  platform  from  which  the  trainman  had  dropped 
off.  Now  the  latter  remounted  while  the  train  re- 
started, gathered  speed. 

"Where  to  ?"  he  asked  Sandy,  surveying  the  pair  of 
them  curiously. 

Sandy  did  not  answer.  He  was  watching  four  run- 
ning figures  coming  down  the  street.  A  star  flashed 
on  the  breast  of  one  of  them,  a  star  dulled  with  mud. 
Goodwin  had  disappeared.  Jordan  pulled  up,  Plim- 
soll  close  behind  him,  and  the  depot  building  shut  off 
Sandy's  view. 

"Where  to?"  asked  the  conductor  again.  "Got 
reservations  ?" 

"Bound  for  Boville,  New  Mexico.  On  the  El  Paso 
and  Southwestern.  What's  the  charges?  No  reser- 
vations, but  we  rode  fifty  mile'  across  the  mesa  to 
make  the  train." 

Sandy  produced  his  roll  and  at  the  same  time  he 


CAROCA  127 

grinned  in  the  light  of  the  conductor's  lantern.  And 
Sandy's  smile  was  worth  much  more  than  ordinary 
currency.  It  stamped  him  bona-fide,  certified  his  char- 
acter. The  conductor's  profession  made  him  apt  at 
such  endorsements. 

"We  take  you  to  Phoenix,"  he  said.  "Change  there 
for  El  Paso.  I  can  give  you  a  spare  upper  for  the 
lady." 

Molly,  all  eyes,  tired  though  they  were,  was  staring 
at  the  Pullman  Afro-American,  flashing  eyes  and 
teeth  and  buttons  at  her  and  even  more  at  Sandy. 

"Fine!"  said  Sandy.  "Smoker's  good  enough  fo' 
me.  He's  got  a  bed  for  you,  Molly.  See  you  in  the 
morning." 

He  waited,  countenancing  her  while  she  climbed 
the  short  ladder  to  the  already  curtained  berth. 
Molly's  system  might  be  aquiver  with  wonder  but  she 
never  showed  loss  of  wits  or  poise.  She  might  have 
traveled  so  a  hundred  times.  Back  of  the  curtain  she 
curled  up  half-undressed  but,  even  as  Sandy  registered 
to  himself  with  a  low  chuckle:  "She  never  turned  a 
hair  or  shied." 

He  found  the  smoking-room  empty  and  rolled  cigar- 
ettes. Presently  the  conductor  came  in  to  go  over  his 
batch  of  tickets  and  accounts. 

"Cattle?"  he  asked  Sandy. 

"Yes,  sir.     Three  Star  Ranch,  nigh  to  Hereford." 

"Business  good  these  days?  Beef's  high  enough  in 
the  city." 

"It's  fair  in  the  main,"  answered  Sandy.     "Some- 


128  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

times  we  seem  right  happy  an'  prosperous  an'  then 
ag'in,"  he  added  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  "we're 
jest  a  jump  ahead  of  the  sheriff." 

"Boss,"  said  the  porter  to  the  conductor,  later,  "Ah 
reckon  that's  a  bad  man  fo'  suah.  Carryin'  two  of 
them  six-guns.  You  figgah  he's  elopin'  wiv  that 
gal?" 

The  conductor  surveyed  his  aide  disdainfully. 

"You've  been  seeing  too  many  cheap  picture-shows 
lately,  Clem,"  he  said.  "Eloping  with  that  young  girl? 
I  wouldn't  hint  it  to  him  if  I  were  you.  Don't  you 
know  a  he-man  when  you  see  one?" 


CHAPTER  X 

SANDY  RETURNS 

EIGHT  days  passed  before  Sandy  came  riding  back 
on  Goldie,  leading  the  bay,  reaching  the  Three 
Star  at  the  end  of  sunset.  Mormon  was  in  his  chair 
with  the  one  letter  that  Sandy  had  written  on  his  lap. 
It  was  almost  too  dark  to  read  it.  Mormon's  eyes 
were  beginning  to  fail  him  at  anything  short  of  long 
distance  but  he  knew  the  contents  by  heart,  yet  he 
liked  to  keep  the  letter  near  him  as  a  dog  loves  a  fa- 
vorite bone  long  after  all  the  nourishment  from  it  has 
been  absorbed.  Mormon  was  still  penitent.  He  knew 
that  the  sheriff  had  just  failed  to  make  the  train,  but 
he  did  not  cease  to  blame  himself  for  submitting 
Sandy  and  Molly  to  so  close  a  chance,  neither  did  Sam 
forget  occasionally  to  remind  him  of  his  lapse  of 
tongue. 

Sandy  pulled  in  the  mare  beyond  the  corral.  He 
could  hear  the  sound  of  Sam's  harmonica  and  pic- 
tured him  with  the  instrument  cuddled  up  under  his 
great  mustache.  Sam  was  playing  The  Girl  I  Left 
Behind  Me  and  he  managed  to  breathe  a  good  deal  of 
pathos  into  the  primitive  mouth  organ. 

"It's  sure  good  to  be  home,  Goldie,"  said  Sandy. 
The  mare  whinnied.  The  bay  nickered.  Answers 

129 


I3o  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

came  back  from  the  corral.  Pronto,  Sandy's  first 
string  horse,  came  trotting  cross  the  corral,  head  up. 

"Hello,  you  ol'  pie-eater!"  said  Sandy.  "You  sure 
look  good  to  me.  C'udn't  take  you  erlong  this  trip, 
son,  but  we'll  be  out  ter-morrer  together."  Then  he 
let  out  a  mighty,  "Hello,  the  house!" 

Sam's  lilt  ceased  abruptly.  The  riders  came  hurry- 
ing. Sam  appeared,  with  Mormon  waddling  after, 
too  swiftly  for  his  best  ease  or  grace  of  motion,  both 
grabbing  at  Sandy,  swatting  him  on  the  back  as  he 
off-saddled. 

"Lemme  go,"  said  Sandy.  "I'm  hungry  as  a  spring 
b'ar.  Where's  Pedro?  Pedro,  I'm  hungry — muy 
hambriento.  Despachese  Vd.  Pronto!  Huevos — 
seis  huevos — fritos!  Frijoles!  Jamon!  Cafe!  Pane- 
cilos!  Todo  el  rancho!  Pronto!" 

"Si,  senor,  inmediatamente."  And,  with  a  yell  for 
Joe  the  half-breed,  Pedro  hurried  away,  grinning,  to 
prepare  the  six  fried  eggs,  the  ham,  the  coffee,  the 
muffins,  everything  in  the  larder! 

His  two  partners  watched  him  eat,  plying  him  with 
food  and  then  with  question  after  question  about  the 
trip,  about  Barbara  Redding  and  about  Molly's  going 
to  school.  Mormon  made  abject  apology  for  talking  too 
much  and  Sandy  told  how  close  a  shave  it  had  been. 

"I  don't  cotton  to  play  in'  jack-rabbit  to  Plimsoll  and 
Jordan's  coyotes,"  said  Sandy.  "Speshully  Plimsoll, 
who's  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  thing.  Nex'  time 
he  may  not  have  the  law  backin'  him,  an'  I  won't  have 
to  run.  How's  the  sheriff?" 


SANDY  RETURNS  131 

"Sort  of  tamed.  They've  been  kiddin'  him  a  mite. 
Seems  he  done  some  boastin'  'fore  he  started.  His 
car's  laid  up  f o'  repairs.  Jordan's  layin'  low.  Miss 
Bailey,  she's  at  the  head  of  the  Wimmen's  League  to 
gen'ally  clean  up  politics  an*  the  town,  one  to  the  same 
time.  I  figger  the  first  thing  their  broom's  goin'  to 
locate'll  be  either  Jordan  or  Plimsoll.  They're  sure 
goin'  into  all  the  dark  corners  an'  under  the  fur- 
niture. She's  a  hustler  an*  she's  thorough,  is  Mirandy  >. 
Bailey." 

"Where'd  you  learn  all  this,  Mormon?  Over  to 
Herefo'd?"  .j 

"  Tears  Miss  Bailey's  took  a  great  interest — in 
Molly,"  said  Sam,  with  a  grin.  "She's  been  over  here 
twice  to  see  if  there  was  news.  Mormon  entertained 
her.  He  seems  to  be  the  fav'rite.  Beats  all  how  one 
man'll  charm  the  fair  sect,  like  honey'll  bring  flies, 
while  another  ain't  ever  bothered." 

Mormon  changed  the  trend  of  the  conversation  by 
demanding  to  know  about  the  school. 

"Molly's  got  an  outfit  Barbara  Redding  bought 
her,"  said  Sandy.  "Trunk  an'  leather  grip,  all  kinds 
of  do-dads.  School  costs  fifteen  hundred  bucks  a 
year.  The  rest  of  Molly's  money  is  banked.  Barbara 
picked  out  a  school  in  Pennsylvania  she  said  was  the 
best.  Here's  an  advertisement  of  it." 

He  handed  the  magazine  leaf  to  Sam  who  read  over 
the  items  with  Mormon  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
forming  the  words  with  his  lips.  Sam  read : 


132  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

CORONA  COLLEGE 

"Developing  School  for  Girls.  Development  of  well 
poised  personality  through  intellectual,  moral,  social 
and  physical  training 

"Extensive  Campus — (whatever  that  is) — Elective 
Academic —  (Sufferin'  Cows!)  — Domestic  Science, 
Household  Economics,  Expression,  Supervised  Ath- 
letics. 

"Horseback  Riding — (Huh,  I  never  see  an  eastener 
yet  who  c'ud  ride) — Swimming,  basketball,  country 
tramping,  dancing,  military  drill." 

Sam  made  heavy  going  of  many  of  the  words  that 
left  him  in  the  dark  as  to  their  meaning.  Sandy  tried 
to  elucidate,  repeating  the  explanations  Barbara  Red- 
ding had  given  him. 

"Campus  is  the  College  Field,  Sam,"  he  said. 

"Then  why  in  time  don't  they  say  so?  Ain't  they 
goin'  to  teach  her  to  talk  United  States?  I  s'pose  them 
things  is  all  fine  an'  necessary  fo'  the  female  eddica- 
tion  but,  dern  me,  if  I  can  see  where  she's  goin'  to 
find  time  to  eat  an'  sleep." 

"It's  been  all-fired  lonely  with  both  you  an'  her 
gone,"  said  Mormon.  "An'  the  dawg  ain't  eat  a 
mouthful,  I  don't  believe.  Mebbe  you  can  coax  him, 
Sandy.  Set  around  an'  howled  like  a  sick  coyote  fo' 
fo'-five  days — mostly  nights.  If  the  gel  balks  at  all 
that  line  of  stuff  I'll  stand  back  of  her  to  quit  an'  come 
back  to  Three  Star." 


SANDY  RETURNS  133 

"An"  have  Jordan  git  her  away  an'  put  her  under 
Plimsoll's  guardeenship  ?" 

"He  c'udn't  do  that.  Mi  randy  Bailey  'ud  block 
him." 

"He  c'udn't  do  anything,"  said  Sandy.  "I  got 
myse'f  appointed  legal  guardeen  to  Molly  while  we 
was  in  Santa  Rosa,  one  day  Barbara  an'  Molly  was 
shoppin'.  John  Redding's  lawyer  fixed  it  up." 

The  months  passed  without  especial  incident  at 
the  Three  Star.  Sandy  purchased  a  Champion 
Hereford  bull  for  the  herd  out  of  the  ranch  share  of 
the  faro  winnings.  Other  improvements  were  added, 
and  the  three  partners  seemed  on  the  fair  way  to  pros- 
perity. Sandy's  theory  that  better  bred  and  better 
fed  beef,  bringing  better  prices,  would  pay,  began  to 
demonstrate  itself  slowly,  though  it  would  take  three 
years  before  the  get  of  the  thoroughbred  stock  was 
ready  for  marketing. 

Occasional  letters  came  from  Molly.  Homesickness 
and  unhappiness  showed  between  the  lines  of  the  first 
epistles,  despite  her  evident  efforts  to  conceal  them. 
Her  ways  were  not  the  ways  of  the  other  girls  who 
were  developing  a  well  poised  personality  through 
intellectual,  moral,  social  and  physical  training.  She 
apparently  formed  no  friendships  and  it  seemed  that 
none  were  invited  from  her. 

"But  I'm  going  to  stick  with  it  till  I  get  same  as 
the  rest — on  the  outside,  anyway,"  she  wrote.  "I  don't 
know  how  some  of  them  work  inside.  It  ain't  like  me. 


134  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

But  I've  started  this  and  you-all  want  me  to  go  through 
so  I  will,  though  I  get  lonesome  as  a  sick  cat  for  the 
ranch.  I  don't  swear  any  more — I  got  into  awful 
trouble  for  spilling  my  language  one  time — and  I  can 
spell  pretty  good  without  hunting  up  every  word  in 
the  dictionary.  I  reckon  I'm  a  hard  filly  to  break  but 
then  I  was  haltered  late.  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
allowed  for  me  to  have  Grit,  so  you'll  have  to  look  out 
for  him  and  not  let  him  forget  me.  I  hope  you  won't 
do  that  yourselves.  Some  of  the  other  girls  are  nice 
enough.  It  will  be  all  right  soon  as  we  get  to  under- 
stand each  other.  Don't  think  I'm  starting  out  to  buck 
or  that  I'm  unhappy,  because  I'm  not." 

"If  she's  happy,  I'm  a  Gila  lizard,"  said  Mormon. 
"What's  the  sense  of  havin'  her  miserable  fo'  the  sake 
of  a  HT  book  learnin'.  She's  gettin'  to  spell  so  I  can't 
make  out  what  she's  writin'  about." 

At  last  Molly  wrote  that  she  had  made  the  basket- 
ball team  and  won  honors  and  favors.  She  gained 
laurels  for  Corona  in  swimming  and  tennis,  and  life 
went  more  merrily.  Mormon  looked  up  tennis  outfits 
in  his  mail  catalogue  and  sent  for  a  book  on  the  game, 
which  he  soon  abandoned. 

"You  have  to  learn  a  foreign  langwidge  before  you 
start  to  play,"  he  said.  "Leastwise  a  code.  The  lang- 
widge ain't  what  you'd  expect  them  to  be  handin'  out 
in  a  young  lady's  college.  All  erbout  deuce  an'  love. 
I'd  a  notion  we'd  fix  up  the  game  fo'  her  so  she'd  c'ud 
keep  it  up  but  I  dunno.  It  sure  ain't  a  fat  man's  game. 
It's  a  human  grasshopper's." 


CHAPTER  XI 

PAY  DIRT 

IN  SEPTEMBER  there  was  a  killing  in  the  Good 
Luck  Pool  Room,  the  murder  of  a  stranger  whose 
friends  made  such  an  investigation,  backed  by  the  real 
law-and-order  element  of  Hereford,  that  the  exposure 
brought  about  forfeiture  of  all  licenses  and  a  strict 
shutting  down  on  gambling  and  illicit  liquor.  Plimsoll 
left  Hereford  for  his  horse  ranch,  deprived  of  the 
sheriffs  official  countenance,  and  Jordan  began  to 
worry  about  election. 

One  evening  in  early  October  a  little  body  of  riders 
came  to  the  Three  Star,  all  strangers  to  the  county, 
men  whose  faces  were  grim,  who  cracked  no  jokes, 
whose  greetings  were  barely  more  than  civil.  They 
were  well  armed  and  they  acted  like  men  of  a  single 
purpose. 

"This  is  the  Three  Star,  ain't  it?"  asked  the  leader 
of  a  cowboy,  who  nodded  silently,  taking  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  visitors. 

"Bourke,  Peters  and  Manning?" 

"One  and  all,"  answered  the  Three  Star  rider. 
"Find  'em  at  chuck,  I  reckon.  You-all  are  jest  in 
time.  If  you  aim  to  stay  overnight  I'll  tend  yore 
hawsses  an'  put  'em  in  the  corral." 

135 


136  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"You  seem  hospitable  here." 

The  tone  was  half  sarcastic. 

"Rule  of  the  ranch,"  replied  Buck.  "Folks  arrivin' 
after  sun-down,  the  same  bein'  strangers,  is  expected 
to  pass  the  night,  if  they're  in  no  hurry." 

Sandy  personally  backed  the  invitation  a  moment 
later  and  steaks  were  being  pan-fried  as  the  men  dis- 
mounted and  lounged  on  the  porch,  awaiting  their 
meal.  The  leader  introduced  himself  by  the  name  of 
Bill  Brandon,  claiming  previous  knowledge,  without 
actual  acquaintance,  of  Sandy,  Mormon  and  Sam  in 
Texas.  Sizing  each  other  up,  man-fashion,  eye  to 
eye,  appraising  a  score  of  tiny  things  that  aggregated 
sufficiently  to  tip  the  mental  scale,  the  crowd  grew 
more  familiar  and  welded  with  supper,  exchanged 
anecdotes  with  digestion,  to  get  confidential  over  the 
tobacco. 

"We're  out  after  a  man  who's  been  collectin'  hawsses 
too  primiscuous,"  said  Brandon  finally.  "We  know 
you  gents  by  past  reputation  an'  by  what  they  say  of 
you  in  Herefo'd.  Also,  by  that  last  reckonin',  I  ain't 
figgerin'  you  as  any  speshul  pal  of  the  man  we're  tryin' 
to  round  up.  I  reckon  you  know  who  we  mean.  Jim 
Plimsoll,  who  owns  what  he  calls  the  Waterline  Hawss 
Ranch,  sixteen  miles  east  of  you,  more  or  less ;  an'  who 
gits  more  fancy  breeds  out  of  the  mangy  cayuses  he 
shows  his  breedin'  mares  an'  stallions,  than  there  is 
different  fish  in  the  sea.  From  all  I  can  figger  most 
of  his  mares  must  have  fo'  foals  a  year. 

"Some  of  us  are  from  this  state — Mojave  County — 


PAY  DIRT  137 

two  of  us  from  Nevada.  Me,  I'm  from  California. 
We've  all  been  losin'  hawsses  off  an'  on  an'  we've  final- 
got  together  an'  compared  notes.  Seems  most  of  the 
missin'  stock  sorter  drifted  across  the  Arizony  line 
somewheres  between  Mojave  City  an*  Topock.  Most 
of  'em  have  been  sold  or  passed  on.  All  of  'em  have 
been  faked  an'  doctored  more  or  less.  Talk  points  to 
Plimsoll,  so  do  some  facts,  but  not  enough.  An'  this 
Plimsoll  has  got  some  mighty  close  friends  where  they 
do  the  most  good.  You'd  have  to  prove  a  damn  sight 
more  than  we  got  to  even  sight  a  blank  warrant." 
"You  been  over  to  his  ranch  ?"  asked  Sandy, 
"Jest  come  from  there.  He's  slick  an'  cool,  is  Plim- 
soll. We  was  supposed  to  be  lookin'  over  hawsses  for 
buyin',  but  he's  careful  who  he  sells  to.  We  saw 
some.  An'  we  recognized  some.  But  you  know  how 
it  is,  Bourke,  it  ain't  hard  to  change  a  hawss.  Dock 
its  foretop,  do  a  little  doctorin',  an'  how  you  goin'  to 
prove  it?  I'll  say  this  for  the  man,  he's  the  finest 
brand-faker  I've  met  up  with.  He  suspicioned  what 
we  was  after  an'  we  didn't  see  all  he  had.  But  we're 
goin'  to  git  him  yet  an',  when  we  do,  there  won't  be 
any  more  hawss-stealin'  an'  fakin'  in  Coconino  County, 
Arizona.  Hawss-stealin'  was  a  hangin'  matter  when 
I  first  come  west  an'  I  reckon  there's  some  feels  the 
same  way  now.  Speshully  when  the  courts  back  up  a 
man  like  Plimsoll.  Lead's  cheaper  than  rope,  but 
somehow  it  ain't  so  convincin'." 

Brandon  changed  the  subject  after  he  had  spoken, 
but  it  was  plain  that  he  and  his  companions  had  not 


138  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

given  up  the  matter;  clear  also  that  they  were  sure  of 
Plimsoll's  guilt  and  laying  plans  to  trap  him.  They 
stayed  until  the  next  morning  and  departed. 

"That  man  Brandon's  got  some  trick  up  his  sleeve 
to  trap  Plimsoll,"  said  Sam,  watching  them  ride  off. 
"He  ain't  quite  got  it  fixed  up  yet  to  suit  himself  but 
it's  a  good  un." 

"He's  got  brains,"  commented  Sandy,  rubbing  Grit's 
ears.  The  collie  had  picked  up  since  Sandy's  return, 
sensing  some  connection  with  his  mistress  closer  than 
that  of  Mormon  and  Sam.  He  would  feed  only  from 
Sandy's  hand  and  attached  himself  to  the  latter  almost 
as  permanently  as  his  shadow.  "So  has  Jim  Plimsoll. 
I  ain't  hankerin'  fo'  another  man  to  clean  him  up  befo' 
I  get  my  own  chance.  But  that  bunch  sure  mean  busi- 
ness." 

The  incident  was  forgotten  as  the  round-up  days 
grew  near,  with  frosty  mornings  when  the  mountains 
looked  as  flat  as  if  they  had  been  profiled  from  card- 
board and  stuck  up  along  the  horizon — until  the  lifting 
sun  modeled  them  with  shadows — with  sweltering 
noons  tapering  slowly  off  to  cool  nights  while  horses 
raced  after  the  flying  cattle,  driving  and  cutting  out, 
and  so  to  the  corral  brandings,  where  the  three  part- 
ners found  their  increase  better  than  they  had  antici- 
pated. 

Molly  was  not  to  come  home  at  Christmas  after  all. 
She  formed  a  friendship,  the  first  close  one  she  had 
made,  and  Barbara  Redding  advised  that  the  invita- 
tion extended  by  this  new  acquaintance  to  spend  the 


PAY  DIRT  139 

holidays  be  accepted.  There  had  been  plans  of  a 
Christmas  tree  and  a  celebration,  but  the  gifts  were 
boxed  and  sent  off.  Others  arrived  from  the  East  in 
exchange,  a  collar  for  Grit,  a  cigarette  case  for  Sandy, 
a  necktie  for  Mormon  and  a  three-decked  harmonica 
for  Sam.  There  was  a  picture  too,  not  so  much  of  a 
girl  but  a  young  woman,  a  somewhat  wistful  look  in 
her  eyes,  but  a  firm-lipped,  resolute-chinned  young 
woman  for  all  that,  who  smiled  out  at  them  frankly 
and  confidently.  It  was  signed 

A  Merry  Christmas  and  a  Prosperous  New  Year 
from  the  Mascotte  of  the    *  *  * 

MOLLY. 

"I  dunno  about  the  merry  Christmas,"  said  Mormon. 
"We're  prosperous  enough,  short  of  bein'  profiteers. 
Molly's  gettin'  to  be  a  good-looker,  ain't  she?  Coin' 
to  git  it  framed,  Sandy?" 

Snows  fell,  the  temperature  ranged  down  far  below 
zero  at  times,  winter  gave  reluctant  place  to  spring 
until  the  last  moment  when  it  turned  and  fled  and, 
far  into  the  desert,  myriads  of  flower-blooms  sprang 
up  overnight  while  everywhere  the  cactus  gleamed  in 
silken  blooms  in  yellow  and  crimson. 

One  April  night  the  Bailey  flivver  came  charging 
up  to  Three  Star,  smothering  itself  in  a  cloud  of  dust 
that  had  not  settled  before  there  sprang  out  of  it  Mi- 
randa Bailey  and  the  lanky  Ed,  temporarily  charged 
with  a  tremendous  activity.  The  cause  of  young  Ed's 


140  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

galvanism  was  so  strong  that  he  actually  won  from 
his  aunt  as  bearer  of  the  news. 

"Gold!"  he  cried.  "They've  struck  pay  dirt  at 
Dynamite !  Chunks  of  sylvanite  that  sweat  gold  in  the 
fire.  Assay  thirty  thousand  dollars  a  ton.  Whole 
streaks  of  it.  Vein's  twelve  foot  wide.  The  whole 
town's  stampedin'  by  way  of  White  Cliff  Canon.  I'm 
goin'.  Got  a  pick  an'  shovel  in  the  car.  Aunt  Mi- 
randy,  she  was  bound  we'd  come  this  way.  Mebbe  we 
can  pack  you  all  in.  But  you  got  to  hurry  or  they'll 
swarm  over  Dynamite  like  flies  on  a  chunk  o'  liver!" 

"It's  true,"  backed  Miss  Bailey.  "Folks  over  to 
Hereford  have  gone  crazy.  I  caught  a  word  or  two 
that  Plimsoll's  to  the  bottom  of  the  rush.  Ed  heard 
he  got  hold  of  some  samples  them  easterners  took  an* 
had  'em  sent  away  an'  assayed.  They  turned  out  to 
be  the  big  stuff.  'Course  you  can't  depend  on  gossip, 
when  folks  are  talkin'  mines  but,  if  it's  so,  Plimsoll's 
burned  the  wind  to  git  first  pick.  An'  he'll  grab  those 
claims  of  Molly's  first  thing.  That's  one  reason  I 
made  Ed  come  this  way.  Thought  you  might  like  to 
come  erlong,  on'y  he  took  the  words  out  of  my 
mouth." 

"You  goin'  ?"  asked  Mormon.  There  were  two  red 
splotches  in  Miranda's  cheeks,  a  glitter  in  her  eyes  that 
suggested  she  had  not  escaped  the  gold  fever. 

"Sure  am,"  she  answered.  "Ed  Bailey  Senior,  he 
'lows  there's  no  sense  in  chasm'  gold  underground. 
Says  he  likes  to  see  his  prospects  growin'  up  under  his 
own  eyes  an'  gazin'  on  his  own  land.  I'm  the  adven- 


PAY  DIRT  141 

turous  one  of  the  Bailey  fam'ly,  though  you  mightn't 
guess  it  to  look  at  me/'  she  said  with  a  twitch  of  her 
lips.  "Me  an'  young  Ed  here.  He  takes  after  me. 
Got  the  gamblin'  germ  in  our  systems.  Want  to  git 
something  fo'  nothin',"  she  went  on  with  grim  humor. 
"I  reckon  Ed's  right  but,  land-sake,  doin'  the  same 
thing,  day  in  an'  out — gits  mighty  monotonous.  Bein' 
a  woman,  you're  more  tied  than  a  man.  I  tried  to  work 
my  extry  energy  out  in  politics  but  it  all  come  my  way 
too  easy. 

"Plimsoll  ain't  got  much  love  for  me.  He  figgers  I 
lost  him  his  license  an'  his  brother-in-law  sheriff  his 
badge.  He's  right.  I  did.  I  figgered  you'd  not  be 
anxious  to  let  him  have  his  own  way  about  Molly's 
claims  an'  I  'lowed  I'd  like  to  be  along  an'  see  the 
excitement.  Me  an'  Ed  here'll  stake  off  suthin'  for 
ourselves.  I'd  jest  as  soon  git  some  easy  money  as  the 
rest  of  'em.  If  I  do  I'll  buy  another  car.  This  thing" 
— she  surveyed  the  panting  flivver  contemptuously — 
"is  nigh  worn  out  and  it's  jest  a  tin  kittle  on  wheels. 
Biles  if  you  leave  it  out  in  the  sun." 

Sandy,  after  a  swift  word  of  apology,  turned  away 
toward  the  bunk-house.  Mormon,  with  a  sweeping- 
salute  from  his  bald  head  to  his  knees,  voiced  his 
opinion. 

"Marm,"  he  said,  "you're  a  dyed-in-the-wool  sport 
an'  I'd  admire  to  trail  with  you.  But  that  kittle,  as 
you  call  it,  '11  sure  bu'st  its  cinches  with  we-all  ridin' 
it.  I'm  no  jockeyweight,  fo'  one." 

"It'll  stand  up.     We've  got  to  make  time.     I  was 


142  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

wonderin'  if  we  c'ud  make  it  by  the  old  road,  where 
you  found  Molly?  It's  shorter  than  White  Cliff 
Canon  an'  we've  lost  time  comin'  out  here." 

Sam  shook  his  head. 

"No'm,  c'udn't  be  done.  There  ain't  no  road.  Las' 
winter  Jud  finish  what  was  left  of  it  an*  there  was 
spots  this  side  of  where  we  found  Casey  where  a 
wagon  c'udn't  have  passed.  We  just  made  it  with 
the  buckbo'd.  Ask  Sandy." 

Sandy,  coming"  up,  endorsed  Sam. 

"We'll  have  to  go  the  long  way,"  he  said.  "How 
are  you  off  fo'  grub  ?  It'll  be  sca'ce  an'  high  in  Dyna- 
mite. Some  of  us  may  have  to  stay  an'  hang  on  to 
claims  until  they're  recorded  an'  the  new  camp  settles 
down.  An'  one  of  us  sh'ud  stay  an'  run  the  ranch," 
he  added.  At  which  his  partners  balked  resolutely. 

"We've  got  some  food,"  said  Miranda.  "You  might 
fetch  along  some  canned  stuff  if  you've  any  handy. 
Ed,  you  sure  you  got  plenty  ile,  gas  an'  water  ?  Better 
look  her  all  over." 

With  orders  to  Buck,  with  some  provisions,  ammuni- 
tion and  a  few  tools,  the  hurried  start  was  made.  Mor- 
mon clambered  to  the  front  seat  beside  young  Ed, 
Miranda  Bailey  sat  between  Sandy  and  Sam.  What- 
ever lack  of  energy  the  lank  Ed  Junior  displayed  on  his 
feet,  he  eliminated  as  a  driver.  The  springs  creaked, 
chirpings  arose  from  various  parts  of  the  car  as  it  ran, 
but  he  coaxed  the  engine,  performed  miracles  at  bad 
places  in  the  road,  nursed  the  insufficient  radiator  sur- 
face and  kept  the  "kittle"  at  a  simmer. 


PAY  DIRT  143 

He  judged  grades,  rushed  them,  conquered  them, 
sometimes  at  a  crawl,  slid  and  skipped  and  jumped 
down  slopes,  negotiated  curves  on  two  wheels  and 
brought  them  triumphantly  through  White  Cliff 
Canon,  over  the  malpais  belt,  up  and  across  a  mesa  and 
so  to  the  far  brink  of  it  an  hour  before  dawn  without 
puncture,  without  a  broken  leaf  in  the  springs,  with 
shock  absorbers  still  on  duty  and  the  cylinders  perform- 
ing full  service. 

Cold  and  raw  as  it  was,  the  engine  was  hot  and  they 
halted  to  cool  it.  They  could  see  a  light  or  two  glim- 
mering at  the  foot  of  the  mesa,  something  that  had 
not  shown  in  the  deserted  mining  camp  for  many 
years.  Miranda  Bailey  shivered  as  she  got  stiffly 
from  the  car. 

"I've  got  some  powdered  coffee  an'  some  solid 
alcohol,"  she  announced.  "We  can  all  have  somethin' 
hot  to  drink  anyway.  It  won't  take  but  a  minute. 
Here's  some  cold  biscuits  we  can  warm  up  on  that 
radiator.  It's  nigh  as  good  as  a  stove." 

The  trio  watched  interestedly  the  capable  way  in 
which  she  got  together  the  meal,  adding  sugar  and 
evaporated  milk  to  her  coffee.  Sam  picked  up  the 
tin  of  solid  alcohol  after  it  had  cooled  off. 

"It's  too  bad  they  can't  fix  up  the  real  stuff  that 
way,"  he  said.  "It  'ud  sure  make  a  hit.  Canned 
Tom-and- Jerry,  all  ready  for  heatin'." 

"And  you  called  Soda-Water  Sam,"  said  Miranda 
Bailey. 

"That  title  was  give  me  in  derision,"  replied  Sam. 


144  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Me,  I  don't  hesitate  to  say  I  like  my  licker.  Likewise 
I  can  do  'thout  it.  They  claim  that  I  used  to  leave 
nothin'  but  the  sody-water  inter  a  saloon  once  I'd 
entered  it.  Which  same  is  a  calummy.  Gittin'  light 
in  the  east,  ain't  it,  folks  ?" 

Coffee-comforted,  they  made  the  down-road  as  the 
sun  rose  above  the  rim  of  the  eastern  range,  so  jagged 
it  seemed  trying  to  claw  back  the  mounting  sun.  Ever 
in  view  below  them  lay  the  intermountain  valley  in 
which  the  camp  had  been  located.  Its  floor  was 
jumbled  with  hard-cored  hills.  There  was  little  green- 
ery. A  few  cottonwoods,  fewer  willows  along  the 
deep  bed  of  a  scanty  stream.  Under  the  sunrise  the 
whole  scene  was  theatrical  with  vivid  light  and  shade. 
The  crumpled  ground,  the  deep-ridged  hills,  all  seemed 
unreal,  made  up  of  papier-mache,  crudely  modeled  and 
painted,  garish,  unfinished.  The  effect  was  enchanced 
by  the  appearance  of  the  one  main  street  of  the  camp 
and  the  few  scattering  cabins  on  the  hills,  the  ancient 
dumps  in  front  of  the  lateral  shafts  where  the  weath- 
ered timbers  sagged. 

There  were  a  few  tents,  some  wagons  and  picketed 
horses,  and  there  were  a  great  many  machines  parked 
at  will.  But,  from  the  height,  it  all  looked  like  the 
miniature  scene  of  a  panoramic  model,  the  houses 
card-board,  the  horses  and  wagons  toys  of  tin.  The 
horses  were  the  only  moving  objects,  no  smoke  curled 
yet  from  the  chimneys. 

Here  and  there  unbroken  glass  in  the  windows  flung 
back  the  sun.  A  door  opened  and  a  midget  in  shirt- 


PAY  DIRT  145 

sleeves  came  out,  stretching  arms,  palpably  yawning. 
Suddenly  smoke  jetted  from  a  tumbled  chimney,  other 
puffs  followed  and  steady  vapors  mounted.  Ant-like 
men  emerged  from  every  house,  gathered  in  little 
knots,  busied  themselves  with  the  horses,  hurried  back 
to  breakfasts.  Faint  sounds  came  up  to  the  travelers. 

"W'udn't  think  that  place  had  been  dead  as  a  ceme- 
tery fo'  years  ?"  commented  Sandy.  "Stahted  up  over- 
night like  an  old  engine.  That's  the  hotel,  with  the 
high  front.  Furniture  all  in  it  an'  in  the  cabins.  Most 
of  the  fixtures  left  in  the  saloons,  an'  there  was  a 
plenty  of  them.  Two  hotels,  five  restyronts,  seven 
gamblin'  houses,  twenty-two  saloons  an'  the  rest 
sleepin'  cabins.  That  was  Dynamite.  When  they  git 
it  dusted  off  and  started  up  it'll  run  ortermatic." 

"Cuttin'  out  the  saloons,"  said  Miranda. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Mormon,  turning  in 
his  seat.  "You-all  want  to  remember,  ma'am,  that  this 
is  an  unco'porated  town  an*  that's  there's  allus  a  short- 
age of  law  an'  order  for  a  whiles  wherever  there's  a 
strike,  gold,  oil  or  whatever  'tis.  Eighty  per  cent, 
of  the  rush  is  a  hard-shelled  lot  an'  erlong  with  'em  is 
a  smaller  bunch  that  thrives  best  when  things  is  run 
haphazard.  There'll  be  licker  down  there,  an'  it'll 
sure  be  quickfire  licker  at  that.  If  you  warn't  the  kind 
you  are,"  added  Mormon,  "I'd  tell  you  that  down 
there  ain't  no  place  fo'  a  woman  ?" 

"Meanin'?"  snapped  Miranda  Bailey.  But  there 
was  a  gleam  in  her  eye  that  showed  of  a  compliment 
Accepted. 


146  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Meanin',"  said  Mormon  "that,  ef  you'll  take  it 
'thout  offense,  you-all  air  plumb  up-to-date.  When 
wimmen  took  up  the  ballot  I  figger  they  wasn't  on'y 
ready  fo'  equal  rights,  they  knew  how  to  git  'em. 
'Side  from  the  shootin'  end  of  it,  I'd  say  you  was  as 
well  equipped  as  any  man  to  look  out  fo'  yore  own 
interests." 

"Thanks,"  replied  Miranda.  "I  suppose  you  mean 
that  as  a  compliment.  Also  I  know  one  end  of  a  gun 
from  another  an'  I  can  hit  a  barn  if  it  ain't  flyin'.  Ed, 
what  you  stoppin'  fer?" 

"Blamed  if  they  ain't  a  puncture,"  said  Ed  as  he 
put  on  the  brakes.  "We  got  a  spare  tire  but  'twon't 
do  to  spile  this  'un.  We  got  to  git  back  some  time. 
Might  not  be  able  to  buy  a  spare  round  here.  I  got  to 
fix  this." 

"Fix  it  when  you  git  down,"  said  his  aunt.  "Put 
on  the  spare.  I'm  kinder  nervous  to  git  my  claim 
staked.  There's  a  sight  of  folks  here.  Look  at  'em 
runnin'  around  like  so  many  crazy  chickens.  Put  on 
the  spare,  Ed,  while  we  pile  out.  An'  hurry." 

The  spare  was  soon  adjusted  and  they  rolled  down 
to  the  valley  and  over  the  dusty  road  to  the  camp.  Be- 
fore they  reached  the  main  street  a  car  passed  them 
from  behind  with  a  rush,  driver  and  passengers  reck- 
less, whooping  as  they  rode,  one  man  waving  a  bottle, 
another  firing  his  gun  into  the  air. 

"That's  the  kind  that'll  figger  to  run  Dynamite  fo' 
a  while,"  said  Sandy.  "I'll  bet  there  ain't  twenty  old- 
timers  in  the  camp — real  miners,  I  mean." 


PAY  DIRT  147 

The  street  was  alive  with  changing  groups,  merging, 
breaking  up  to  listen  to  some  fresh  report  of  a  strike, 
or  opinion  as  to  the  prospects.  There  were  no  women 
in  sight.  The  men  were  of  all  sorts,  from  cowboys  in 
their  chaps,  who  had  left  the  range  for  the  chance  of 
sudden  wealth,  to  storekeepers  from  Hereford  and 
other  towns.  Excitement  reigned,  no  one  was  normal. 
Bottles  passed  freely.  Among  the  crowd  moved  shifty- 
eyed  men  who  had  come  to  speculate.  There  were 
gamblers,  plain  bullies,  swaggerers,  with  here  and 
there  a  bearded  miner,  gray  of  hair  and  faded  blue  of 
eye,  either  moving  steadily  through  the  throng  or  held 
up  by  a  little  crowd  to  whom  he  declaimed  with  the 
right  of  experience.  Some,  it  seemed  certain,  must 
be  on  their  claims,  but  the  bulk  of  the  men  who  filled 
the  street  of  the  resurrected  town,  were  those  who 
prey  upon  the  work  and  luck  of  others,  camp-followers 
of  the  Army  of  Good  Fortune. 

Mormon's  pronouncement  that  the  town,  after  its 
long  desertion,  had  automatically  refunctioned,  was 
not  far  wrong.  Rudely  lettered  signs  proclaimed 
where  meals  could  be  bought  and  boldly  announced 
gambling. 

KENO— CHUCKALUCK  AND  STUD 

CRAPS  AND  DRAW  POKER 
THE  OLD  RELIABLE  FARO  BANK 

J.  PLIMSOLL,  PROP, 
read  Sandy. 

"He's  here,  lookin'  fo'  easy  money,  both  ends  an* 


148  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

the  middle/'  he  drawled.  '  Wudn't  wonder  but  what 
we'd  rub  up  ag'in'  him  'fo*  we  leave." 

"You'll  want  to  go  right  through  to  Molly's  claims, 
I  suppose/'  said  Miranda  Bailey.  "Do  you  know 
where  they  are?" 

"I  can  soon  find  the  location/'  replied  Sandy.  "But 
there  ain't  any  extry  hurry.  They've  been  recorded. 
They'll  keep.  We'll  git  us  some  real  hot  grub  at  one 
of  these  restyronts  an'  listen  a  bit  to  the  news.  Find 
out  where  is  the  most  likely  place  fo'  you  an'  yore 
nevvy  to  locate." 

"Ain't  you  afraid  Plimsoll  or  some  one'll  have 
jumped  those  claims?"  asked  the  spinster. 

"Wudn't  be  surprised.  But  there's  allus  two  ways 
to  jump,  Miss  Mirandy.  In  an'  out.  Let's  try  Cal 
Simpson's  Place.  I  knew  him  when  he  was  runnin'  a 
chuck-wagon.  He's  sure  some  cook  if  it's  him." 

They  pressed  through  the  crowded  streej  to  the  sign. 
Next  door  to  the  cabin  that  Simpson  had  preempted 
on  the  first-come-first-served  order  that  prevailed,  was 
one  of  the  olden  saloons.  Through  door  and  window 
they  could  see  the  crowded  bar  with  bottles  and  tin 
mugs  upon  the  ancient  slab  of  wood.  Over  the  door 
the  inscription: 

ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  GRAPEJUICE 

MULE  BRAND 
TWO  KICKS  FOR  ONE  BUCK 

Some  looked  curiously  at  Miranda  Bailey,  but  the 
sight  of  her  escort  checked  any  familiarity.  Covered 


PAY  DIRT  149 

with  dust  from  their  ride,  guns  on  hip,  the  three  mus- 
keteers did  not  encourage  persiflage  at  the  expense  of 
their  outfit  and  they  passed  unchallenged  into  the  eat- 
ing-house where  a  stubby  man  with  a  big  paunch 
shouted  greetings  at  Sandy. 

"You  ornery  son  of  a  gun!  An*  Mormon.  This 
yore  last,  Mormon.  No?  I  beg  yore  pardon,  marm. 
I  c'ud  have  wished  Mormon  'ud  struck  somethin'  sen- 
sible an'  satisfactory  at  last.  It's  his  loss  more'n 
your'n.  What'll  you  have,  folks?  I've  got  steak  an' 
po'k  an'  beans.  Drove  over  some  beef.  More  comin' 
ter-morrer.  I'll  have  a  real  mennoo  by  the  end  of  the 
week.  Steak?  Seguro!  Biscuits  an'  coffee." 

He  shouted  orders  to  a  helper  and  hurried  off  to 
pan-broil  the  steaks.  To  the  order  he  added  some 
fried  potatoes. 

"They  ain't  on  the  bill-of-fare,"  he  said.  "Try  'em, 
marm.  Hope  you  strike  it  lucky,  Sandy.  Damn  few 
— beggin'  yore  pahdon,  miss — damn  few  of  this  crowd 
ever  had  a  blister  on  their  hands.  It  ain't  like  the 
old  days  when  the  sourdoughs  made  a  strike.  They 
worked  their  own  shafts.  This  bunch  specklates  on 
'em.  A  claim'll  change  hands  twenty  times  between 
now  an'  ter-morrer  night. 

"Rush  is  over  fo'  the  mornin'.  I'll  sit  in  with  you, 
if  you  don't  mind.  I  got  my  steak  in  that  pan." 

"What's  the  indications?"  asked  Sandy,  after  Simp- 
son had  rejoined  them. 

"Big.  Look  here.  White  gold!"  He  pulled  out  a 
piece  of  tin  white  mineral  with  a  brilliant  metallic  lus- 


150  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ter,  sparkling  with  curious  crystals.  "Sylvanite — 
twenty-five  per  cent,  gold  an'  twelve  an'  a  half  silver. 
Veined  in  the  porphyry.  There's  a  young  assayer 
come  in  last  night.  He  'lows  it's  sylvanite,  same  as 
they  have  over  to  Boulder  County  in  Colorado.  He 
comes  from  the  Boulder  School  of  Mines.  He's  a  kid, 
but  I  w'udn't  wonder  but  he  knows  what  he's  talkin' 
about.  Some  calls  it  telluride.  But  it's  gold,  all  right, 
an'  there's  a  big  vein  of  it  close  to  the  surface  on  the 
knoll  east  side  of  Flivver  Crick." 

They  passed  the  heavy  mineral  from  hand  to  hand, 
examining  it  with  eager  curiosity.  Simpson  rambled 
on. 

"Over  five  hundred  in  camp  an'  more  comin'  all  the 
time.  The  rush  ain't  started  yet.  Coin'  to  be  an  old- 
time  boom,  sure.  Bound  to  make  money  ef  you  don't 
hold  on  too  long.  Peg  you  out  a  claim  or  two  'long 
that  east  bank,  Sandy.  Don't  matter  'ef  she's  located 
or  not,  you  can  sell  it  fo'  mo'n  you'll  ever  git  out  of 
it  by  workin'  it. 

"This  man  Plimsoll  aims  to  make  him  a  fortune," 
he  continued.  "He's  got  a  gang  of  bullies  with  him 
who're  stakin'  out  the  best  claims  an'  jumpin'  others. 
He's  runnin'  a  game  wild.  He's  here  to  clean  up.  I 
tell  you,  Sandy,  the  sheriff  ought  to  be  on  the  job  on 
the  start  of  a  rush  like  this.  But  he's  t'other  end  of 
the  county,  they  tell  me,  an'  likely  he  won't  hear  of  it 
for  three-four  days.  And  by  that  time  she  may  have 
blew  up  ag'in,"  he  closed  pessimistically.  "Blew  up 
once,  did  Dynamite.  This  may  be  jest  a  flash  in  the 


PAY  DIRT 

pan,  a  grass-root  outcrop.  That's  the  way  she  started 
when  old  man  Casey  drifted  in  an'  his  burro  kicked 
up  pay-ore.  Damn — dern — few  of  this  crowd'll  ever 
stop  to  run  shaft  or  tunnel.  Though  this  young 
assay  in'  feller  talks  big  about  folds  an'  uplifts,  syn- 
clines  an'  anticlines.  Claims  the  po'phyry  is  syncline. 
You  got  to  catch  it  where  the  fold  is  shaller  or  else  dig 
half-way  to  China.  You  still  in  the  cow  business, 
Sandy?" 

So  he  chatted  until  fresh  customers  came  in  and 
claimed  his  skill  and  steaks.  Miranda  Bailey  and  her 
companions  finished  the  meal  and  started  out. 

The  Casey  claims  were  on  the  east  side  of  the  creek, 
Sandy  knew.  The  old  prospector's  lore,  or  instinct, 
had  been  unfailing.  It  remained  to  see  if  his  marks 
and  monuments  had  been  respected.  Molly  had  said 
that  the  assessment  work  had  been  done,  and  she  had 
so  described  the  place  in  a  narrow  terrace  of  the  hill 
that  Sandy  felt  sure  of  finding  them  without  trouble. 

He  pointed  out  a  sign  over  the  door  of  a  shack 
ahead,  white  lettered  on  black  oil  cloth : 

CLAY  WESTLAKE. 

ASSAYER—SURVEYOR  AND 

MINING  ENGINEER. 

A  knot  of  men  were  milling  about  the  place. 

"Doin*  a  trade  already,"  said  Sam.  "Must  have 
brung  that  sign  erlong  with  him.  Smart,  fo*  a  young- 
ster. Simpson  said  he  was  a  kid.  How  'bout  seein' 


152  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

him  befo'  Miss  Bailey  an'  Ed  here  stake  their  claims? 
I'm  aimin'  to  mark  out  one  fo'  me,  same  time." 

"Also  me,"  said  Mormon. 

Guffaws  suddenly  rose  from  the  little  crowd  by  the 
assayer's  sign.  A  deep  voice  boomed  out  in  bullying 
tone,  followed  by  silence,  then  more  laughs.  Sandy 
leaned  to  Mormon. 

"You  keep  her  an'  young  Ed  back,"  he  said.  "Trou- 
ble here,  I  figger." 

Mormon  nodded,  stepping  ahead,  blocking  Miran- 
da's progress  in  apparently  aimless  and  clumsy  fashion 
while  Sandy,  his  hands  dropping  to  his  gun  butts, 
lifting  the  weapons  slightly  and,  releasing  them  into 
the  holsters  once  again,  lengthened  his  stride,  walk- 
ing cat-footed,  on  the  soles  of  his  feet,  as  he  always 
did  when  he  scented  trouble.  Sam,  easing  his  own 
gun,  lightly  touched  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
and  followed  Sandy  with  eyes  that  widened  and 
brightened. 

"Bullyin'  the  kid,  I  reckon,"  he  said  to  Sandy  as 
they  went.  Sandy  did  not  need  to  nod  before  they 
reached  the  half-ring  that  had  formed  about  a  young 
chap  in  khaki  shirt,  riding  breeches  and  puttees,  whose 
fair  hair  was  curly  above  a  face  tanned,  and  resolute 
enough.  Yet  he  was  clearly  nervous  at  the  jibes  of 
the  crowd  and  the  actions  of  the  man  who  faced  him, 
heavy  of  body,  long  of  arm,  heavy  of  jowl;  a  deep- 
chested,  broad-shouldered  individual  whose  head, 
cropped  close,  tapering  in  a  rounded  cone  from  his 
bushy  eyebrows,  helped  largely  to  give  him  the  aspect 


PAY  DIRT  153, 

of  a  professional  wrestler,  or  a  heavyweight  prize- 
fighter. He  carried  a  big  blued  Colt  revolver,  and 
the  way  he  spun  the  weapon  on  the  trigger  guard 
showed  familiarity  with  the  weapon. 

The  young  assayer  had  no  holster  to  his  belt,  seem- 
ingly no  gun.  His  clean  shaven  jaws  were  clamped 
tight  so  that  the  muscles  lumped  here  and  there,  and 
he  fronted  the  unsympathetic  crowd  and  the  jeering 
bully  with  a  courage  that  was  partly  born  of  despera- 
tion. 

"Mining  engineer!"  read  the  bully.  "Smart,  ain't 
he,  for  a  curly-headed  kid!  Engineer?  Peanut 
butcher  'ud  suit  better.  Looks  like  a  movie  pitcher 
actor,  don't  he?  Mebbe  he's  a  vodeville  performer. 
I'll  bet  he  is,  at  that.  What's  yore  speshulty,  kid? 
Singin'  or  dancin'.  Or  both." 

He  flung  a  shot  from  the  gun  into  the  ground  be- 
tween the  young  man's  feet. 

"Show  us  a  few  steps,  you  powder-faced  dood! 
Mebbe  we'll  let  you  stay  in  camp  if  you  amuse  us." 

Sandy  and  Sam  had  elbowed  their  way  lightly 
through  the  ring  and  the  former  turned  to  the  man 
beside  whom  he  happened  to  stand. 

"What's  the  idea?"  he  asked. 

"The  young  Jun  good  as  told  Roarin'  Russell  he 
didn't  know  what  he  was  talkin'  about.  Chap  asked 
the  kid's  opinion  on  a  bit  of  ore  an'  he  give  it.  It  didn't 
suit  Russell." 

"It  didn't,  eh?  Now,  that's  too  bad,"  drawled 
Sandy.  The  other  looked  at  him  curiously.  Sandy's 


154  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

drawl  was  often  provocative.  Russell's  gun  barked 
again. 

"Dance,  damn  ye !  An'  sing  at  the  same  time ;  blast 
you  for  a  buttin'  in  tenderfoot!  Won't,  eh?" 

The  victim,  game  but  despairing,  flung  a  look  of 
appeal  about  him.  To  give  in  meant  to  become  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  camp,  to  have  its  ribaldry  fol- 
low him,  to  be  laughed  out  of  the  camp,  branded  as  a 
coward.  Yet  to  resist  was  a  challenge  to  death.  The 
bully  had  been  drinking,  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  was 
that  of  the  killer,  a  man  half  insane  from  alcohol. 

"Up  with  yore  hands!  Up  with  'em,  or  I'll  shoot 
the  knuckles  off  of  'em !  I'll  make  a  jumpin'-jack  of 
you  or  I'll  shoot  yore  .  .  . 

The  first  syllable  of  the  intended  volley  of  foulness 
was  barely  out  when  Sandy,  stepping  forward, 
touched  the  bully  on  the  shoulder.  Russell  whirled  as 
a  bear  whirls,  gun  lifting. 

"Lady  back  here  in  the  crowd,"  said  Sandy  quietly. 

For  a  second  Russell  gasped  and  stared  and,  as  he 
stared,  the  cold  hard  look  in  Sandy's  eyes  told  him 
the  manner  of  man  who  had  interrupted  him.  But 
this  man's  guns  were  in  the  holsters,  Russell's  weapon 
was  in  hand  though  its  muzzle  was  tilted  skyward. 
The  crowd,  thickening,  waited  his  next  move.  He 
had  been  stopped  in  his  baiting.  He  saw  no  woman 
back  of  the  big  bulk  of  Mormon,  keeping  Miranda 
well  away,  not  seeing  what  was  going  forward. 

"To  hell  with  the  lady!"  shouted  Russell.  At  his 
back  was  only  the  unarmed  assayer.  This  lean  cold- 


PAY  DIRT  155 

eyed  interferer  was  a  hardy  fool  who  needed  a  lesson. 
He  swept  down  his  gun,  thumb  to  hammer.  Two 
guns  grew  like  magic  in  Sandy's  hands.  Russell  read 
a  message  in  Sandy's  glance,  he  heard  the  gasp  of  the 
crowd.  With  his  own  gun  first  in  the  open  the 
stranger  had  beaten  him  to  the  drop  and  fire.  He 
felt  the  fan  of  the  wing  of  death  on  his  brow.  His 
gun  flew  out  of  his  fingers,  wrenched  away  by  the 
force  of  impact  from  Sandy's  bullet  on  its  muzzle, 
low  down,  near  the  cylinder.  Dazed,  he  watched  it 
spinning  away,  his  -  .;u  numb. 

"Back  up  to  that  door,  you!  Back  up!"  Sandy's 
voice  was  almost  conversational  but  it  was  profoundly 
convincing.  The  bully  obeyed  him,  standing  at  the 
door  in  the  place  of  the  assayer,  who  stepped  aside, 
feeling  a  little  sick  at  the  stomach,  Sam  bracing  him 
in  friendly  fashion  by  one  elbow. 

"I  won't  shoot  yore  knuckles  off,"  said  Sandy,  "per- 
vidin'  you  keep  yore  fingers  wide  apaht,  an'  don't 
wiggle  'em.  Spread  'em  out  against  the  wood,  bully 
man!" 

His  face  whitening  from  the  ebb  of  blood  to  his 
cowardly  heart,  Roarin'  Russell  opened  his  fingers 
wide,  judging  implicit  obedience  his  greatest  safety. 
Sandy  did  not  move  position,  he  hardly  seemed  to 
move  wrist  or  finger  as  his  guns  spat  fire,  left  and 
right,  eight  shots  blending,  eight  bullets  smashing 
their  way  through  the  door  between  the  "V's"  of  the 
bully's  fingers  while  the  crowd  held  their  breath  for 
the  exhibition. 


156  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Sandy  quickly  reloaded,  quickly  but  without  obvious 
haste.  He  did  not  return  the  guns  to  their  holsters  and 
he  paid  no  attention  to  the  admiring  comments  of  the 
crowd. 

"Who  is  he?  Two-gun  man!  They  say  his  name's 
Sandy  Bourke." 

"You-all  interfered  with  a  friend  of  mine/'  said 
Sandy.  "It  ain't  a  healthy  trick.  An'  you  ain't 
apologized  to  the  lady.  I  don't  know  how  Westlake 
feels  about  it,  but  you've  sure  got  to  apologize  to  the 
lady." 

The  assayer,  bewildered  at  Sandy's  assumption  of 
friendship,  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly.  Russell's 
eyes  rolled  from  side  to  side  toward  his  still  elevated 
hands. 

"You  can  lower  'em  if  you  can't  talk  with  'em  up," 
said  Sandy.  "I'm  waitin'  fo'  that  apology,  but  I'm  in 
a  bit  of  a  hurry." 

"I  didn't  see  no  woman,"  mumbled  the  bully,  crest- 
fallen. 

"I  told  you  there  was  one,"  said  Sandy.  "I  don't  lie, 
even  to  strangers.  You're  sorry  you  swore,  ain't  you  ?" 

"You're  quicker'n  I  am  on  the  draw  with  yore  two 
guns,"  retorted  the  goaded  Russell.  "I  c'ud  lick  you 
one-handed  'thout  guns — or  any  man  in  this  crowd," 
he  blustered  in  an  attempt  to  halt  his  departing  pres- 
tige. 

"You-all  had  a  gun  in  yore  hand  when  we  stahted 
in,"  said  Sandy  equably.  "You're  sorry  you  swore — 
ain't  you?" 


PAY  DIRT  157 

The  repeated  words,  backed  by  the  cold  gaze,  the 
ready  guns,  were  merciless  as  probes. 

"I  apologizes  to  the  lady,"  growled  Russell. 

"Now,  that's  fine,"  said  Sandy.  "Fine !  Westlake, 
will  you  come  erlong  with  me  f o'  a  spell  ?" 

He  made  his  way  through  the  opening  group.  Sam 
followed  with  the  assayer  who  now  began  to  realize 
that  Sandy's  interference  had  established  a  friendship 
that  would  continue  protective.  They  met  Mormon, 
almost  purple  in  the  face  from  suppressed  feelings. 
Young  Ed  Bailey  eyed  Sandy  with  awe  and  new  re- 
spect. Miranda  Bailey's  attempt  to  learn  exactly  what 
had  happened  was  thwarted  by  Sandy's  presentation 
of  Westlake.  During  the  introduction  Mormon 
slipped  away.  Roaring  Russell  was  endeavoring  to 
readjust  his  swagger  when  the  stout  cowboy  met  him. 

"I  was  with  the  lady,"  said  Mormon.  "Consequent 
I  c'udn't  git  here  sooner.  You  said  you  c'ud  lick  any 
one  in  the  camp  one-handed,  guns  barred.  Now  I 
don't  like  the  way  you  apologized,  sabe?  It  warn't 
willin'  enough,  nor  elegant  enough,  nor  spontaneous 
enough.  Ter-night,  after  I  git  through  showin'  the 
lady  around  the  diggings,  I'll  meet  you  where  you  say 
for  fun,  money  or  marbles,  an*  argy  with  you  bare- 
handed. Thisaway." 

He  slapped  Russell  on  the  cheek.  The  bully  roared 
and  the  crowd  stepped  back.  Mormon,  with  the  sur- 
prising alertness  he  showed  in  action,  for  all  his  bulk 
and  weight,  sprang  back,  poised  for  strike  or  clutch. 
Miranda  Bailey  came  with  a  rush  and  stepped  between 


158  RIMROCK  TRATL 

the  two  men.  Russell  foresaw  a  laugh  at  his  expense 
and  curbed  himself,  the  sooner  for  his  new-found  con- 
sideration for  Sandy's  gunplay. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yoreselves,  both  of 
you,"  exclaimed  the  spinster.  "I'll  have  no  one  fight- 
in'  over  me.  I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

"Yes,  m'm,  I  reckon  you  can.  I  reckon  we  are 
ashamed,"  said  Mormon  meekly,  as  the  crowd  roared 
in  laughter  that  died  away  before  the  evenly  swung 
gaze  of  Sandy,  backed  by  Sam.  Russell  slipped  off 
and  the  men  dispersed.  Miranda  addressed  Mormon. 

"I'll  not  have  you  fighting  with  that  hulkin'  brute 
on  my  account,"  she  said.  "Do  you  understand?" 

Morman  gulped.  He  seemed  summoning  his  cour- 
age, gripping  it  with  both  hands. 

"Marm,"  he  said  desperately,  "you  can't  stop  me." 

The  spinster  gasped,  met  his  eyes,  flushed  and 
turned  away.  Sam  nudged  Mormon  with  elbow  to 
ribs. 

"You  dog-gone  ol'  desperado,"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 
"I  didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you.  That  the  way  you 
treated  the  first  three?" 

"No,  it  ain't,"  said  Mormon,  mopping  his  forehead. 
"And  she  ain't  the  same  kind  they  was,  neither.  Come 
on,  or  we'll  lose  'em." 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHITE   GOLD 

44?T  WAS  mighty  decent  of  you  to  take  me  under 
1  your  protection,"  said  the  young  engineer  to 
Sandy.  He  made  hard  going  of  the  last  word  but  shot 
it  out  with  a  snap  that  left  his  jaw  advanced.  Sandy 
told  himself  that  he  liked  the  clean-cut,  well-set-up 
Westlake. 

"Shucks,"  he  answered,  "I  reckon  you  w'udn't  have 
much  trubble  protectin'  yo'self,  providin'  terms  was 
any  way  nigh  even.  That  Roarin'  Russell  throwed 
down  on  you,  figgerin'  you  packed  no  gun,  seem' 
there  was  none  in  sight. 

"I  sabe  that  kind  of  hombre.  Since  he  was  knee- 
high  he's  always  had  an  aidge  on  most  folks,  'count  of 
his  size  an'  weight.  But  that  ain't  enough,  he's  got 
to  have  somethin'  on  the  other  man  'fo'  he  tackles 
him.  He  plays  all  his  games  with  an  ace  in  a  hold-out. 
Which  shows  him  fo'  a  man  who  figgers  he  ain't  equal 
to  tacklin'  another  'thout  he  knows  he's  got  the  best 
of  it.  He  thinks  he's  one  hell  of  a  wrastler  an'  rough- 
an'-tumble  man  but,  if  he  ever  mixes  with  Mormon, 
it's  goin'  to  be  a  bull  an'  b'ar  affair — an'  Mormon'll 
do  the  tossin'." 

159 


160  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Westlake  looked  somewhat  dubiously  at  Mormon's 
girth. 

"Don't  jedge  a  man  by  the  size  of  his  waistband," 
said  Sandy.  "Mormon's  fooled  mo'n  one.  He's  hog 
fat,  to  look  at,  but  if  you  was  to  skin  him  you'd  find 
mighty  HT  fat  an'  a  heap  of  muscle.  Got  flesh  like 
an  Injunrubber  ball,  has  Mormon.  Minute  Roarin' 
Russell  finds  he  ain't  got  a  walkover  he'll  begin  to 
quit.  That  sort  does,  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred. 
The  yaller  jest  natcher'ly  oozes  out  of  'em.  How'd 
your  fuss  come  to  staht?" 

"A  man  was  showing  Russell  and  some  others  a 
piece  of  quartz  picked  up  round  here.  It  had  nothing 
in  it  but  some  mica  and  galena,  but  Russell  had  given 
it  as  his  opinion  that  it  was  the  gold-bearing  rock  of 
the  region.  I  told  them  I  thought  they  would  find 
that  in  the  porphyry  and  Russell  asked  me  what  the 
hell  I  knew  about  it?  That's  how  it  started.  I  don't 
know  how  it  would  have  finished  if  you  hadn't  taken  a 
hand  and  sai'd  I  was  a  friend  of  yours.  That  saved 
my  face.  I  came  to  the  strike  because  I  thought  there 
would  be  a  chance  of  getting  in  on  the  ground  floor  in 
new  diggings  and  I  hated  to  be  driven  out  of  it  by 
having  to  dance  for  a  bully  and  a  bully's  crowd.  I 
don't  know  that  I  would  have  danced.  It's  hard  to 
weigh  the  odds  when  a  gun  has  been  fired  at  you,  but 
I  figured  he  wouldn't  shoot  to  kill." 

"Might  have  crippled  you,"  said  Sandy.  "If  I'd 
been  you  I'd  have  danced." 

"You  would?" 


WHITE  GOLD  161 

"I  sure  would.  No  sense  in  argy'in'  with  a  gun  an' 
a  boozy  bluffer  at  the  other  end  of  it.  He'd  put  up  his 
bluff  an',  feelin'  sure  you  c'udn't  hurt  him,  he'd  have 
carried  it  through.  Any  time  a  man  has  the  drop  on 
me  I  raise  my  hands — or  my  feet,  'cordin'  to  orders. 
I've  spent  a  deal  of  time  practisin'  so  it's  hahd  to  beat 
me  to  the  draw.  Trouble  was,  ef  you-all  don't  mind 
my  sayin'  so,  you  horned  in.  You  give  out  informa- 
tion gratis.  You  had  yore  sign  up  fo'  minin'  engineer. 
Chahge  fo'  what  you  know,  son,  an'  yo'  customers'll 
be  grateful.  Give  'em  a  slug  o'  gold  free  an'  they'll 
chuck  it  at  a  perairie  dawg  befo'  they've  gone  fifty 
yards." 

"Do     you     know     anything     about     mining,     Mr 
Bourke?" 

"Sandy  is  my  name  to  my  friends.  A  cowman  with 
a  mister  to  the  front  of  his  name  seems  to  me  like  a 
hawss  with  an  extry  bridle.  No,  sir,  I  don't.  Do 
you?" 

Sandy's  eyes  twinkled  as  he  put  the  quiz.  Westlake 
laughed. 

"I  hope  so.  I  think  so.  Mining  is  bound  to  be 
more  or  less  of  a  gamble.  A  first-class  mining  en- 
gineer could  tell  you  where  you  ought  to  find  the  gold 
in  a  certain  region,  but  he  couldn't  guarantee  that 
there  would  be  any.  Experience  counts  a  lot,  of 
course,  but  I  do  know  something  about  sylvanite,  or 
white  gold.  I've  seen  its  big  field  over  in  Boulder  and 
Teller  Counties,  Colorado.  They  call  it  graphic  gold, 
sometimes,  because  the  crystals  are  very  frequently  set 


162  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

up  in  twins  and  branch  off  so  that  they  look  like  writ- 
ten characters.  The  crystals  are  monoclinic  and  occur 
in  porphyry  almost  exclusively.  It  is  a  mixture  of 
gold  and  silver  telluride  and  it's  also  called  tellurium. 
Named  after  Transylvania  where  it  was  first  found. 
There's  some  in  Australia." 

"I'm  much  obliged,"  said  Sandy.  "I've  learned  a 
heap." 

Westlake  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  but  Sandy's 
face  was  grave  as  that  of  the  sphinx. 

"The  porphyry  dykes  here  are  in  syncline,"  the 
engineer  went  on.  "They  dip  toward  each  other  from 
both  sides  of  the  valley  and  form  loops  or  folds.  If 
you  imagine  an  onion  sliced  in  half  you  catch  the  idea. 
Call  every  other  layer  porphyry,  with  rock  and  other 
dirt  between.  The  bottom  of  a  loop  may  be  deep  down 
or  it  may  be  missing  altogether,  ground  away  when 
the  valley  was  gouged  out  by  a  glacier.  There  may 
be  other  loops  beneath  it.  Some  portions  of  the  loops 
come  to  the  surface  on  the  hillside  and  you  can  guess 
at  their  dip.  But — the  gamble  lies  in  this.  The  ones 
that  are  exposed  may  or  may  not  carry  the  gold-bear- 
ing veins.  You  might  hit  it  at  grass  roots  and  find  a 
lot  of  it.  Or  you  might  go  down  deep  sinking  through 
the  hard  porphyry  for  nothing.  Science  says  that  the 
tellurium  crystals  are  in  the  porphyry  dykes  and  that 
these  dykes  lie  in  syncline,  perhaps  two  or  three,  nested 
one  under  the  other." 

"Gosh,"  ejaculated  Miranda  Bailey.  "It  sure 
sounds  like  a  lottery  to  me.  I  wonder  c'ud  we  hire 


WHITE  GOLD  163 

you  to  p'int  out  a  likely  place  for  us  to  locate  ?"  They 
had  left  the  one  street  by  this  time  and  were  making 
their  way  slowly  along  the  western  slope  of  the  valley. 
Men  worked  at  creaky  and  shaky  old  windlasses  or 
appeared  and  disappeared  at  the  mouths  of  lateral 
shafts,  repairing  the  ancient  timbers,  wheeling  out 
rubbish.  Once  or  twice  they  heard  the  dull  boom  of  a 
shot  where  dynamite  was  trying  to  split  the  rock  and 
uncover  a  lead.  On  several  of  the  claims  were  groups, 
the  members  of  which  made  no  pretense  at  mining,  but 
lolled  about,  playing  cards  or  pitching  dollars  at  a 
mark.  These  were  speculators,  holding  to  sell.  Stakes 
with  papers  in  clefts,  piles  of  stones  at  the  corners, 
showed  the  boundaries  of  the  claims. 

"If  you  think  my  judgment  is  any  good,"  said  West- 
lake,  "you're  welcome  to  it.  I  could  be  more  certain 
of  helping  you  when  it  comes  to  assaying  or  developing 
a  mine.  Are  you-all  taking  up  claims  ?  Do  you  want 
to  align  them,  or  do  you  want  to  pool  interests  and 
locate  here  and  there  where  the  chances  look  good?" 

"Miss  Bailey  an'  her  nephew  are  goin'  to  take  a 
chance,"  said  Sandy.  "Me  an'  my  two  partners  are 
lookin'  for  claims  located  by  the  man  who  first  discov- 
ered the  camp.  They  can't  get  away  an'  we'll  see  Miss 
Mirandy  settled  first." 

"Me,  I  aim  to  take  up  a  claim,"  said  Mormon.  "So 
does  Sam." 

"Who's  goin'  to  work  it?"  asked  Sandy.  "You-all 
forget  that  we  agreed  when  we  went  into  the  ranchin' 
business  together  not  to  go  into  speculations  on  the 


164  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

side  'thout  mutual  consent.  From  what  I  can  make 
out  from  Westlake's  talk  speculation  is  a  mild  term  fo' 
lookin'  fo'  gold.  I  don't  consent,  by  a  long  shot.  We 
got  Molly's  claims  to  look  after  with  our  interest  in 
'em,  an'  I've  a  hunch  that's  goin'  to  occupy  all  our 
time  we  got  to  spare.  What  does  Roarin'  Russell  do 
in  the  camp,"  he  asked  Westlake,  seemingly  irrele- 
vantly, "or  ain't  he  shown  yet?" 

"He  is  a  sort  of  bouncer,  or  capper  for  that  gambling 
joint  run  by  Plimsoll." 

Sandy  nodded.  "I  ain't  surprised.  Plimsoll's  fig- 
gerin'  that  he'll  get  a  big  chunk  of  whatever's  dug  out, 
'thout  takin'  any  chances  on  diggin'.  W'udn't  wonder 
.but  what  he  figgers  to  run  the  camp,  mo'  ways  than 
one,  with  a  few  bullies  like  Roarin'  Russell  to  help 
him." 

"This  Casey,"  said  Westlake,  "who  made  the 
original  strike,  did  he  take  out  much?" 

"As  I  understand  it,"  replied  Sandy,  "he  hits  the 
porphyry  where  it's  shaller,  or  worn  off,  like  you  said. 
An'  he  finds  rich  pay  stuff  right  away,  enough  to  start 
the  camp.  Quite  a  few  works  on  that  outcrop  an'  then 
it  peters  out.  Casey  sabed  a  bit  about  synclines,  I 
reckon,  fo'  he  kept  faith  in  the  camp,  on'y  he  realized 
it  'ud  take  a  heap  of  money  to  develop,  meanin'  to  dig- 
through  the  porphyry,  I  suppose.  Now  they've  found 
some  mo'  of  that  float  ore  that  the  first  crowd  over- 
looked. Reckon  that'll  peter  out  too,  after  a  while. 
But  capital  may  come  in  on  this  second  staht.  Some 
eastern  folk  were  lookin'  over  the  place  a  while  back. 


WHITE  GOLD  165 

Took  samples  an'  Plimsoll  got  wise  to  what  they 
amounted  to." 

"And  he  hasn't  taken  up  any  claims?"  said  West- 
lake.  "Despite  his  gambling  investment,  I  should  have 
thought  he  would." 

"He's  got  an  interest  in  one  or  two,  I  fancy,  or 
thinks  he  has,"  said  Sandy  dryly. 

Westlake  halted  and  took  a  small  steel  hammer  from 
his  pocket  with  which  he  struck  off  a  fragment  of 
rock  protruding  from  the  ground.  The  cleavage 
showed  purple.  He  walked  slowly  along  for  some 
fifty  feet,  kicking  the  soil  with  his  foot,  breaking  off 
other  samples  to  which  he  put  his  tongue. 

"Taste  good?"  asked  Sam. 

"Not  bad,  if  you're  looking  for  mineral.  They've 
got  a  distinct  flavor  all  their  owrn,  but  I  wetted  them 
to  show  the  color  up  more  plainly.  Here  is  the  out- 
crop of  a  syncline  reef.  It  may  carry  gold  and  it  may 
not,  but  it's  wide  enough,  it's  near  the  surface  and  it's 
as  good  a  place  as  any.  It  dips  deeper  lower  down, 
but  I  imagine  you'll  find  it  floating  out  again  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley.  Runs  like  the  ribs  of  a  ship, 
with  the  valley  the  hull.  And  the  ship's  rail,  the  gun- 
wale in  the  rim-rock  that  outlines  the  auriferous  de- 
posit." 

Sandy,  glancing  across  the  valley  to  where  the 
engineer  pointed,  nodded  his  head.  "Your  judgment 
goes  with  Casey's,"  he  said.  "Right  across  from  here 
is  where  he  located  his  claims,  I  take  it.  How  about 
it,  Mormon?  Fits  the  description  to  a  T." 


166  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Sure  does,"  assented  Mormon.  "That's  the 
notched  boulder  half-way  up  the  hill,  the  three-forked 
dead  pine  on  the  ridge.  If  you  locate  here,  marm," 
he  said  to  Miranda,  "an'  we-all  make  a  strike,  we'll 
be  on  the  same  vein,  I  reckon." 

"It's  all  Greek  to  me,"  said  the  spinster.  "How  do 
we  locate?  I've  come  this  far,  an'  I'll  see  the  thing 
through  to  some  sort  of  finish.  Me  an'  young  Ed'll 
camp  here.  I  figger  we  can  git  the  car  up.  It's  gone 
through  worse  places.  There's  water  down  there  in 
the  crick.  We've  got  grub.  When  it's  gone  we  can 
buy  more.  How  many  claims  can  we  take  up  an' 
what's  the  size  of  'em,  Mr.  Westlake?" 

The  three  partners  left  Miranda  and  the  engineer 
measuring  off  and  setting  up  their  monuments  at  the 
corners  of  the  claim.  Young  Bailey  started  for  the 
faithful  flivver.  They  started  directly  down  the  side- 
hill,  making  for  the  valley,  in  silence,  like  men  with 
business  ahead  of  them  that  called  for  action  rather 
than  words. 

"Figger  that  tent  is  on  them  claims  of  Molly's  and 
our'n  ?"  asked  Sam,  as  they  paused  before  they  tackled 
the  eastern  slope.  "Looked  like  it  was  to  me." 

"Me  too,"  said  Mormon. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder,"  agreed  Sandy.  "Here's  the 
situation,  as  I  sabe  it.  Plimsoll  met  up  with  Pat  Casey 
from  time  to  time.  Molly  said  so.  There's  other  wit- 
nesses to  that.  PlimsolFll  use  some  of  them  to  swear 
that  he  grubstaked  Casey.  They'll  be  some  of  his  own 
crowd.  No  doubt  Plimsoll  got  the  location  of  the 


WHITE  GOLD  167 

claims  from  the  old  records  an'  these  buckaroo  pals  of 
his,  who  are  roostin'  on  said  location,  knew  jest  where 
to  go  an'  stahted  out  well  in  front  with  their  outfit.  I 
don't  reckon  we'll  find  Plimsoll  up  there,  though  we 
ain't  seen  him  so  far  this  mo'nin',  but  I'll  bet  our  best 
bull  ag'in'  a  chunk  of  dogmeat  that  they're  on  his  pay- 
roll." 

"Shucks,  it  don't  make  no  difference  whose  pay-roll 
they're  on,"  said  Mormon.  "They're  claim-jumpers 
an',  like  you  said,  Sandy,  a  jump  can  be  made  two 
ways.  Let's  go  look  'em  over." 

The  tent  was  pitched  on  the  hillside  where  the  grade 
was  too  steep  to  permit  of  level  ground  enough  for 
more  than  the  actual  floor  space.  The  brown  duck 
erection  strained  at  the  guy  ropes  of  its  upper  side 
where  the  stakes  had  been  driven  deep  into  the  soil. 
The  chimney  of  a  small  stove  came  through  the  top  of 
the  cloth,  guarded  by  a  metal  ring.  Outside  were 
boxes,  saddles,  an  ax,  kettles  and  pans,  a  portable  grill 
and  other  camping  equipment.  The  tent  flaps  were 
open  and  showed  cots  on  which  blankets  and  clothing 
were  roughly  spread.  On  two  of  these  beds  men 
sprawled  asleep.  Five  others  were  seated  on  boxes 
about  a  boulder  that  looked  like  porphyry  outcrop.  Its 
surface  was  flat  enough  to  serve  as  a  table.  The  five 
were  playing  poker.  One  was  bearded  and  seemed  the 
old-time  miner.  All  boasted  stubble  on  their  chins, 
two  wore  mustaches.  One  was  bald.  Their  clothes 
varied,  from  the  miner's  faded  blue  overalls,  high 
boots  and  flannel  shirt,  to  soiled  khaki  and  laced  pros- 


168  R1MROCK  TRAIL 

pector's  footwear.  One  thing  they  all  had  in  common, 
cartridge  belts  and  guns,  in  plain  view.  Taken  to- 
gether they  were  not  a  prepossessing  lot,  playing  their 
game  in  silence,  looking  up  with  a  scowl  and  move- 
ments toward  gun  butts  at  the  visitors.  Two  burros 
cropped  at  the  scanty  herbage  above  the  tent.  A  demi- 
john stood  between  two  of  the  box  seats. 

"I've  seen  that  tent  afore,"  whispered  Sam  to 
Sandy.  The  latter  nodded. 

"Campin'  out,  gents?"  he  asked  amiably. 

"No,  we  ain't.  These  claims  are  preempted.  Tres- 
passers ain't  welcome.  You're  invited  to  move  on." 

"That's  a  new  name  fo'  it,"  said  Sandy  pleasantly. 
"New  to  me.  Preempted." 

"What  in  hell  are  you  driving  at  ?"  asked  the  other. 
"This  is  private  property." 

"Property  of  Jim  Plimsoll?" 

"None  of  yore  damned  business." 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  tent.  One  of  the  men 
got  up  from  his  cot  and  stood  yawning  in  the 
entrance,  one  hand  on  the  pole.  The  other  snored  on. 
Sandy,  with  Mormon  and  Sam,  stood  just  above  the 
group  on  the  narrow  bench  that  furnished  the  floor 
for  the  tent.  They  had  little  doubt  that  the  jumpers 
knew  who  they  were,  though  they  recognized  none  of 
them  by  sight.  There  was  a  hesitancy  toward  action 
that  might  have  been  born  out  of  respect  to  Sandy's 
two  guns  or  a  foreknowledge  of  his  reputation  in 
handling  them,  aside  from  the  armament  of  his  part- 
ners. Sandy's  hands  rested  lightly  on  his  hips,  his 


WHITE  GOLD  169 

thumbs  hooked  in  his  belt,  fingers  grazing  the  butts 
of  his  guns.  There  was  a  smile  on  his  lips  but  none 
in  his  eyes.  His  tone  and  manner  were  easy. 

"Saw  his  stencil  on  the  tent,"  he  said.  "J.  P.  in  a 
diamond.  Same  brand  he  uses  fo'  his  hawsses.  Or 
mebbe  you  found  it." 

His  drawling  voice  held  a  taunt  that  brought  angry 
flushes  of  color  to  the  faces  of  the  men  opposing  him, 
yet  they  made  no  definite  movement  toward  attack. 
It  seemed  patent  that  Sandy  Bourke  was  testing  them. 
Trouble  was  in  the  air,  two  kinds  of  it:  on  the  one 
side  hesitant  belligerency;  on  the  other — cool  noncha- 
lance. Sandy,  with  his  smiling  lips  and  unsmiling 
eyes,  stood  lightly  poised  as  a  dancing  master.  Mor- 
mon and  Sam  were  tenser,  crouched  a  little  from  the 
hips,  elbows  away  from  their  sides,  hands  with  fingers 
apart,  ready  to  close  on  gun  butts,  standing  as  boxers 
stand  or  distance-runners  set  on  their  marks. 

The  man  who  stood  in  the  tent  door  kicked  at  his 
sleeping  companion  and  roused  him  to  sit  on  the  side 
of  his  cot  and  stare  sleepily  out,  gradually  taking  in 
the  situation.  There  were  seven  against  three  but, 
when  the  odds  are  so  big  and  the  minority  faces  them 
with  a  readiness  and  an  assurance  that  shows  in  their 
eyes,  on  their  lips,  vibrates  from  their  compacted  alli- 
ance, the  measure  is  one  of  will,  rather  than  physical 
and  merely  numerical  superiority,  and  the  balance  beam 
quivers  undecidedly.  The  bearded  miner,  with  the 
rest,  looked  shiftily  toward  the  man  who  had  done  the 
speaking,  the  bald-headed  one,  whose  khaki  and  nail- 


1 70  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

studded  boots  were  belied  by  the  softness  and  puf finess 
of  his  flesh,  the  sags  and  wrinkles  beneath  his  eyes  and 
under  his  double  chins.  He  had  little  gray-green  orbs 
that  glittered  uneasily. 

"I'm  giving  you  men  two  minutes  to  clear  out  of 
here,"  he  said.  "No  two-gunned  cowpuncher  can 
throw  any  bluff  round  here,  if  that's  what  you're  try- 
ing to  do." 

Sandy  laughed  joyously.  The  smile  was  in  his 
eyes  now. 

"If  I  figger  a  man's  throwin'  a  bluff,"  he  said,  "I 
usually  figger  to  call  him,  not  to  chew  about  it.  Me, 
I  pack  two  guns  fo'  a  reason.  Once  in  a  while  I  shoot 
off  all  the  ca'tridges  from  one  an'  then  I  don't  have 
to  reload.  Now,  I'm  talkin'.  These  claims  are  duly 
registered  in  the  name  of  Patrick  Casey,  his  heirs  an' 
assigns.  Here's  the  papers.  The  assessment  work  is 
all  done.  Pat's  daughter  owns  'em  now.  We're  rep- 
resentin'  her.  An'  I'm  servin'  you  notice  to  quit. 
We'll  take  the  same  two  minutes  you  was  talkin'  of. 
They  must  be  nigh  up  now,  though  I  didn't  see  you 
lookin'  at  yo'  watch.  I'm  lookin'  at  my  Ingersoll  an' 
I  give  it  sixty  seconds  mo'.  Then  staht  yore  liT 
demonstration,  gents,  providin'  I  don't  beat  you  to 
it."  He  started  to  roll  a  cigarette  with  hands  skilful 
and  steady.  Back  of  him  Sam  and  Mormon  stood 
like  dogs  on  point,  watchful,  unmoving,  but  instinct 
with  suppressed  motion. 

"The  girl  may  be  his  heir,"  said  the  bald-headed 
man,  "but  Plimsoll  is  assignee.  Plimsoll  staked  him 


WHITE  GOLD  171 

an*  these  claims  are  half  his.  The  girl  can  put  in  her 
share  to  the  title  later,  if  they  amount  to  anything. 
She  ain't  of  age." 

"So  J.  P.  was  hirin'  you  to  do  his  dirty  work,"  said 
Sandy,  his  voice  cold  with  contempt.  "You  go  back 
to  him,  the  whole  lousy  pack  of  you,  an'  tell  him  from 
me  he's  a  yellow-spined  liar.  Git!  Take  yore  stuff 
with  you  or  send  back  fo'  it.  Now,  git  off  this 
property." 

If  a  man  can  make  movements  with  his  hands  so 
swiftly  that  they  are  covered  in  less  than  a  tenth  of  a 
second,  ordinary  human  sight  can  not  register  them. 
He  has  achieved  the  magician's  slogan — the  quickness 
of  the  hand  deceives  the  eye.  It  takes  natural  aptitude 
and  long  practise,  whether  one  is  juggling  gilded  balls 
or  blued-steel  revolvers.  Sandy  could,  with  a  circling 
movement  of  his  wrists,  draw  his  guns  from  their 
holsters  and  bring  them  to  bear  directly  upon  the  tar- 
get to  which  his  eyes  shifted.  Glance,  twist  of  wrist, 
arrest  of  motion,  pressure  of  finger,  all  coordinated. 
One  moment  his  hands  were  empty,  his  glance  care- 
lessly contemptuous,  the  veriest  movement  of  a  split- 
second  stop-watch  and  the  gun  in  his  right  hand  spat 
fire,  the  gun  in  his  left  swung  in  an  arc  that  menaced 
the  five  card  players. 

The  other  two  were  struggling  beneath  the  crumpled 
folds  of  a  collapsed  tent,  wriggling  frantically  like 
the  stage  hands  who  simulate  waves  by  crawling  be- 
neath painted  canvas.  Sandy  had  shattered  the  pegs 
that  held  up  the  upper  corners  of  the  tent  on  the  slope, 


172  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

had  cut  the  cords  of  the  remaining  guys  on  that  side 
and  the  structure  had  swayed  and  collapsed. 

Sam  and  Mormon  had  lined  up  now  with  Sandy. 
There  was  no  mistaking  their  intention  to  use  their 
guns.  But  the  exhibition  had  been  quite  sufficient. 
With  one  accord  the  five  raised  their  hands  shoulder 
high  and  began  to  shuffle  down  the  hill,  regardless  of 
their  equipment,  which,  having  been  paid  for  by  Plin> 
soil,  they  regarded  as  of  much  less  value  than  the 
necessity  for  departure. 

"Come  out  of  that,"  commanded  Sandy  to  the  two 
wrigglers.  "Git  a  move  on." 

The  faces  that  appeared  were  .ludicrous  in  their 
expressions  of  dismay  and  appeal.  Their  owners 
came  out  like  dogs  from  a  kennel  who  expect  to  be 
kicked  as  they  emerge.  One  of  them  had  taken  off 
his  boots  for  better  sleeping  and  he  hobbled  uneasily 
in  his  socks. 

"Take  along  yore  booze,"  said  Sandy. 

The  bootless  one  looked  furtively  at  the  demijohn, 
still  like  a  wary  cur  who  snatches  at  and  bolts  with 
a  stray  bone.  Then  the  pair  set  off  at  a  jog  trot  after 
the  rest. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Sam,  "if  that  was  good  whisky?" 

Sandy  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  "Sody- Water," 
he  said,  "I'm  plumb  disappointed  in  you  an'  yore 
cravin'.  Smell  it  an'  see." 

His  gun  exploded.  The  man  with  the  demijohn  gave 
a  curious  hop,  skip  and  jump.  The  demijohn  jerked 
in  his  hand  but  seemed  intact.  The  bullet,  smashing 


WHITE  GOLD  173 

through  the  wickerwork,  had  shattered  the  container 
but  the  tough  willow  twigs  preserved  the  shape.  Two 
more  shots  and  there  was  a  tinkle  of  broken  glass. 
The  last  bullet  had  clipped  the  neck.  It  was  too  close 
shooting  for  the  sockless  one  and  the  whisky  was 
dripping  fast  through  the  weave,  bringing  a  reek  of 
crude  liquor  to  Sam's  twitching  nostrils.  The  claim- 
jumper  dropped  what  was  left  of  his.  burden  and  went 
hopping  on,  acquiring  stone  bruises  with  every  leap. 

"Scattered  like  a  bunch  of  coyotes,"  said  Sam. 

"Sure  did,"  agreed  Sandy.  "Minute  they  stahted 
talking  'stead  of  shootin',  I  knew  they  was  ready  tc 
stampede.  .  They'll  beat  it  to  Plimsoll  an'  we'll  see  jest 
how  much  sand  he's  got  in  his  craw." 

"Not  enough  to  keep  him  from  skiddin'  on  a  down- 
grade," said  Mormon.  "Sandy,  that's  cruelty  to  ani- 
mals, sendin'  that  hombre  off  'thout  his  boots  after 
you  took  away  his  licker.  I've  got  tender  feet  myse'f 
as  well  as  a  soft  heart.  Help  me  with  this  tent  a 
minute,  Sam." 

Together  they  raised  the  fallen  canvas  enough  to 
discover  the  boots,  which  Mormon  hurled  down-hill 
after  the  limping  one,  who  was  far  in  the  rear  of  his 
companions.  He  turned  at  Mormon's  shout  and  he 
stopped,  fearful  at  the  act  of  kindness,  crawled  up  the 
slope  and  retrieved  his  footwear,  pulled  them  on  and 
scurried  off. 

A  distant  shout  reached  them  from  the  other  side  of 
the  gulch.  By  position,  rather  than  actual  recognition, 
Sandy  guessed  the  figure  that  of  Westlake.  The  fir- 


174  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ing  must  have  sounded  only  a  little  louder  than  cork 
poppings,  but  evidently  the  engineer  had  sized  up  the 
retreating  men  and  the  collapsed  tent.  Sandy  waved 
to  him  in  assurance  that  all  was  well  and  the  other 
waved  back  in  understanding. 

"Think  Plim'll  show?"  asked  Sam. 

"Got  to — or  quit,"  said  Sandy.  "That  bunch  of 
jumpers  he  got  together'll  spill  the  beans  unless  he 
makes  some  play.  It's  plumb  evident  he  wants  these 
partickler  claims.  I  don't  believe  he's  hirin'  men  just 
to  make  us  peevish.  'Sides,  he  didn't  know  fo'  sure 
we  were  comin'.  Might  have  figgered  we'd  trail  the 
news  of  the  rush,  but  I'll  bet  a  sack  of  Durham  against 
a  pinch  o'  dirt  that  he's  fairly  sure  that  old  man  Pat- 
rick Casey  picked  him  some  first-class  locations.  We 
got  one  card  that'll  upset  him  considerable,  my  bein* 
the  legal  guardeen  of  Molly." 

"A  heap  he  cares  fo'  legal  or  not  legal,"  said  Sam. 

"That's  jest  what  he  will  do,  now  he  ain't  standin' 
in  with  the  crowd  that  hands  out  the  law,  Sam.  He 
might  try  to  make  it  a  show-down  right  here  an'  drive 
us  out  of  the  camp  or  leave  us  tucked  away  stiff  in 
some  prospect  hole.  But  there's  a  lot  of  decent  ma- 
terial drifted  in  an'  it  w'udn't  be  hard  to  beat  him  to 
that  play  an'  organize  a  camp  committee  fo'  the  regula- 
tion of  law  an'  order  till  such  time  as  the  camp  proves 
itself  an'  is  established.  Once  big  capital  gits  stahted 
in  here  the  law'll  be  workin'  right  along  hand  in  hand 
with  the  development.  Let's  take  a  pasear  an'  look  at 
Casey's  workings." 


WHITE  GOLD  175 

Patrick  Casey  had  run  in  a  tunnel  from  the  face  of 
his  discovery.  Weathered  porphyry  float  showed  on 
the  dump  whose  size  suggested  greater  depth  to  the 
tunnel  than  they  had  expected.  Its  mouth  had  been 
closed  by  timbers  fitting  closely  into  the  frame  of  the 
horizontal  shaft,  forming,  not  so  much  a  door,  as  a 
barricade,  that  had  been  firmly  spiked  to  heavy  tim- 
bers. This  had  been  recently  dismantled  and  then 
replaced,  as  recent  marks  on  the  weathered  lumber 
showed.  Sandy  looked  at  these  places  closely,  frown- 
ing as  he  gave  his  verdict. 

"Some  one  monkeyin'  with  this  inside  of  the  last 
month,"  he  announced.  "The  nails  ain't  rusted  like 
the  old  ones  an*  the  chips  are  fresh.  Like  as  not  it 
was  that  bunch  of  easterners.  They'd  figger  the  camp 
was  abandoned  an'  consider  themselves  justified  as 
philanthropists  into  bu'stin'  open  anything  that  looked 
good — like  this  tunnel.  A  man  w'udn't  go  to  the 
trouble  of  timberin'  up  if  he  didn't  think  he  had  some- 
thin'  inside  that  was  goin'  to  turn  up  high  cahd  some 
day.  'Course  the  capitalist,  if  he  found  somethin'  that 
looked  good,  'ud  hunt  up  the  owner  in  the  registry  an' 
make  him  an  offer.  But  it  w'udn't  be  a  half  interest 
in  the  mine.  He'd  say  he  was  thinkin'  of  developin' 
half  a  mile  away  an',  if  he  bought  cheap  enough,  he 
might  make  an  offer.  Yes,  sir,"  Sandy  went  on, 
warming  to  his  own  theory,  "it  w'udn't  surprise  me  if 
this  warn't  the  mine  they  sampled  which  Plimsoll  finds 
out  is  the  real  stuff  an'  clamps  on." 

"Well,"  said  Mormon,  "we'll  have  a  chance  to  ask 


176  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

him  in  a  minute.  He's  comin'  up  with  that  crowd  of 
his  rangin'  erlong  an'  their  ha'r  liftin'.  Thar's  that 
ungrateful  skunk  I  chucked  the  boots  at.  Plim  don't 
look  over  an'  above  pleased  the  way  things  are  break- 
in'.  Looks  as  amiable  as  a  timber  wolf  with  his  tail 
in  a  b'ar  trap." 

The  three  partners  met  the  jumpers,  now  headed  by 
Plimsoll,  on  the  border  of  the  claims.  The  gambler's 
face  was  livid.  He  had  boasted  and  lashed  himself 
into  a  bullying  confidence  that  he  knew  was  inade- 
quate to  meet  the  situation  he  could  not  avoid.  Hatred 
of  the  men  who  had  balked  him  more  than  once  served 
him  better. 

"You  four-flushers  get  off  this  ground,"  he  blus- 
tered. "You're  claiming  to  represent  Molly  Casey's 
rights  after  you've  kidnaped  the  girl  and  sent  her  out 
of  the  state.  It  won't  get  you  anywhere  or  anything. 
I've  got  a  half  interest  in  these  claims  and  I've  plenty 
of  witnesses  to  prove  it." 

"I  don't  believe  yore  witnesses  are  half  as  vallyble 
as  they  might  have  been  before  politics  shifted  in 
Herefo'd  County,"  said  Sandy.  "You  ain't  got  a  writ- 
ten contract  an'  it  w'udn't  do  you  a  mite  of  good  if 
you  had,  fur  as  I'm  concerned.  Because  I've  been  duly 
an'  legally  app'inted  guardeen  to  Casey's  daughter 
Molly  an'  I'm  here  to  represent  her  interests,  likewise 
mine.  I've  got  my  guardianship  papers  right  with  me." 

"A  hell  of  a  lot  of  good  they'll  do  you  in  this  camp," 
sneered  Plimsoll.  "Representin'  her  interests.  I'll 
say  you  are,  an'  your  own  along  with  'em."  A  laugh 


WHITE  GOLD  177 

from  his  followers  heartened  him.  "If  the  camp  ever 
hears  the  yarn  of  your  running  off  with  the  girl  and 
now,  with  her  tucked  away,  coming  back  to  clean  up, 
I've  a  notion  they'd  show  you  four-flushers  where 
you've  sat  in  to  the  wrong  game.  Why  .  .  .  ' 

Something  in  Sandy's  face  stopped  him.  It  became 
suddenly  devoid  of  all  expression,  became  a  thing  of 
stone  out  of  which  blazed  two  gray  eyes  and  a  voice 
issued  from  lips  that  barely  moved. 

"I've  got  a  notion,  too,  Plimsoll.  A  notion  that  it 
'ud  be  a  good  day's  work  to  shoot  you  fo'  a  foul- 
mouthed,  lyin',  stealin'  crook!  You  sure  ain't  worth 
bein'  arrested  fo',  an'  there  ain't  no  open  season  fo' 
two-laigged  coyotes  of  yore  sort,  so  I'll  give  you  yore 
chance.  You've  called  me  a  fo'-flusher  twice,  an'  the 
on'y  way  to  prove  a  fo'-flush  is  to  call  fo'  a  show- 
down. I'm  doin'  it." 

The  words  came  cold  and  even,  backed  by  a  grim 
earnestness  that  imprinted  itself  on  the  lesser  manhood 
of  the  jumpers  as  a  finger  leaves  its  print  in  clay. 
They  shifted  back  a  little  from  Plimsoll,  circling  out 
as  they  might  have  moved  away  from  a  man  marked 
by  pestilence.  He  stood  trying  to  outface  Sandy,  to 
keep  his  eyes  steady.  His  lips  were  tight  closed,  still 
he  could  not  help  but  open  his  mouth  to  a  quickened 
breathing,  to  touch  the  lips  with  a  furtive  tongue  that 
found  the  skin  peeling  in  tiny  feverish  strips. 

"You  pack  yore  gun  under  yore  coat  flap,"  said 
Sandy.  "I  don't  know  how  quick  you  can  draw  but  I 
aim  to  find  out." 


178  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

He  handed  one  of  his  own  guns  to  Mormon,  an- 
nouncing his  action  lest  Plimsoll  might  mistake  it. 

"Now  then,"  he  went  on,  "I  once  told  you  I  looked 
to  you  to  stop  any  gossip  about  Molly  Casey.  Same 
time  Butch  Parsons  an'  Sim,  Hahn  got  huht.  You 
don't  seem  able  to  sabe  plain  talk  an'  I'm  tired  of  talk- 
in'  to  you,  Jim  Plimsoll.  Me,  I'm  goin'  to  roll  me  a 
cigareet.  Any  time  you  want  to  you  can  draw.  I'm 
givin'  you  the  aidge  on  me.  If  you  don't  take  that 
aidge,  Jim  Plimsoll,  I'm  givin'  you  till  sun-up  ter- 
morrer  mornin'  to  git  plumb  out  of  camp.  An'  to 
keep  driftin'." 

Deliberately  Sandy  took  tobacco  sack  and  papers 
from  the  pocket  of  his  shirt,  his  fingers  functioning 
automatically,  precisely,  his  eyes  never  shifting  from 
Plimsoll's  face,  measuring  by  feel  the  amount  of 
tobacco  shaken  into  the  little  trough  of  brown  paper. 
While  he  rolled  the  cigarette  the  sack  swung  from  his 
teeth  by  its  string. 

The  group  gazed  at  him  fascinated.  Plimsoll's  face 
beaded  with  tiny  drops  of  sweat,  his  hands  moved 
slowly  upward  toward  his  coat  lapels,  touched  them  as 
Sandy  twisted  the  end  of  the  cigarette,  stayed  there, 
shaking  slightly  with  what  might  have  been  eagerness 
— or  paralysis.  For  the  look  in  the  steel  gray  eyes  of 
Sandy  Bourke,  half  mocking,  all  confident,  spurred  the 
doubts  that  surged  through  the  gambler's  chance-cal- 
culating mind,  while  he  knew  that  every  atom  of  hesi- 
tation lessened  his  chances. 

His  own  hands  were  close  to  his  chest.     His  right 


WHITE  GOLD  179 

had  but  a  few  inches  to  dart,  to  drag  the  automatic 
from  its  smooth  holster.  Sandy's  hands  were  high 
above  his  belt,  rolling  the  cigarette.  They  had  four 
times  as  far  to  go.  But  Plimsoll  knew  that  if  any- 
thing went  wrong  with  his  performance,  if  he  failed 
to  kill  outright,  that  nothing  would  go  wrong  with 
Sandy's  shooting.  The  mention  of  Butch  and  Sim 
Hahn  did  not  compose  him.  He  had  had  the  stage  all 
set  that  time  and  Butch  had  been  shot  down,  Sim 
Halm's  capacities  as  a  crooked  dealer  had  been  spoiled 
for  ever.  But — if  he  did  not  take  his  chance  and,  fail- 
ing it,  did  not  leave  camp  .  .  . 

He  felt  cold.  The  temperature  of  his  own  conceit, 
the  mercury  of  the  regard  of  his  bullies,  was  falling 
steadily.  The  nervous  sweat  was  no  longer  confined 
to  his  face.  The  palms  of  his  hands  were  moist, 
slippery  .  .  . 

"Gimme  a  match,  Sam."  Sandy's  voice  came  to 
Plimsoll  across  a  gulf  that  could  never  be  bridged. 
He  watched  the  flame,  pale  in  the  sunshine,  watched  it 
lift  to  the  cigarette  and  then  a  puff  of  smoke  came 
into  his  face  as  Sandy  flung  away  the  burnt  stick  and 
turned  on  his  heel.  Murder  stirred  dully  in  Plimsoll's 
brain  at  the  sneers  he  surmised  rather  than  read  on 
the  faces  of  his  followers.  His  defeat  was  also  theirs. 
But  the  moment  had  gone.  He  knew  he  lacked  the 
nerve.  Sandy  knew  it  and  had  turned  his  back  on 
him. 

His  prestige  was  gone.  His  boon  companions 
would  talk  about  it.  Mormon  gave  Sandy  back  his 


i8o  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

second  gun  and  Sandy  slid  it  into  the  holster.  He 
exhaled  the  last  puff  of  his  cigarette  before  he  spoke 
again  to  Plimsoll. 

"Sun-up,  ter-morrer.  You  can  send  fo'  yore  stuff 
here  any  time  you've  a  mind  to.  Fo'  a  gamblin'  man, 
Plimsoll,  you're  a  damned  pore  judge  of  a  hand." 

Plimsoll  strode  off  down  the  hill  alone.  The  men 
who  had  come  with  him  hesitated  and  then  crossed  the 
gulch.  They  had  severed  connections  with  the  J.  P. 
brand  for  the  time,  at  least.  The  three  partners  walked 
back  toward  the  tunnel. 

"I  saw  the  carkiss  of  a  steer  one  time,"  said  Sam, 
"that  had  been  lyin'  on  a  side-hill  fo'  quite  a  spell. 
The  coyotes  an'  the  buzzards  had  been  at  it,  an'  the 
wind  an'  weather  had  finished  the  job  till  there  warn't 
much  mo'n  hide  an'  some  scattered  bones.  Mebbe  a 
HT  hair.  But  that  carkiss  sure  held  mo'  guts  than 
Jim  Plimsoll  packs." 

"He  ain't  through,"  said  Mormon.  "You  didn't 
ought  to  give  him  till  sun-up,  Sandy.  Sun-down  'ud 
have  been  better.  He's  a  mangy  coyote,  but  he's  got 
brains  an'  he'll  addle  'em  figgerin'  out  some  way  to 
git  even." 

"I  w'udn't  wonder,"  answered  Sandy.  "Me,  I'm 
goin'  to  do  a  liT  figgerin'  too." 

"We  got  to  stay  on  the  claims,"  said  Sam.  "If  they 
happened  to  think  of  it  they  might  heave  a  stick  of 
dynamite  in  our  midst  afteh  it's  good  an'  dahk.  A 
flyin'  chunk  of  dynamite  is  a  nasty  thing  to  dodge,  at 
that." 


WHITE  GOLD  181 

He  spoke  as  dispassionately  as  if  he  had  been  dis- 
cussing a  display  of  harmless  fireworks.  Sandy 
answered  in  the  same  tone. 

"I  don't  think  it  likely,  Sam.  Camp  knows,  or  will 
know,  what's  been  happenin'.  If  dynamite  was  thrown 
they'd  sabe  who  did  it  an*  I  don't  believe  the  crowd  'ud 
stand  for  it.  Jest  the  same  it  'ud  sure  surprise  me  if 
we  didn^-t  git  some  sort  of  a  shivaree  pahty  afteh  night- 
fall. I  w'udn't  wonder  if  Jim  Plimsoll  forgets  to 
send  fo'  that  tent  an'  stuff  of  his.  Hope  he  does." 

"What  do  we  want  with  it?"  demanded  Mormon. 

"Nothin',  with  the  stuff.  We'll  set  it  out  beyond 
the  lines  come  dusk.  But  the  tent'll  come  in  handy. 
We  didn't  bring  one  erlong." 

Sam  and  Mormon  both  looked  at  him  curiously,  but 
Sandy's  face  was  sphinx-like  and  they  refrained  from 
useless  questioning. 

"Here  comes  young  Ed,"  announced  Sandy  as  they 
gained  the  tunnel.  "He's  totin'  somethin'  that  looks 
to  me  as  if  it  might  be  grub." 

"Won't  offend  me  none  ef  it  is,"  said  Mormon. 
"I'm  hungrier'n  a  spring  b'ar  an'  all  our  stuff's  oveh 
with  Mirandy  Bailey." 

"She's  sure  one  thoughtful  lady,"  said  Sam.  "What 
you  got,  Eh  ?"  he  queried  as  the  gangling  youth  came 
up. 

"Beans,  camp-bread  an'  coffee.  Aunt  Mirandy,  she 
'lowed  you-all  might  not  want  to  leave  the  claim  so 
she  sent  this  over  to  bide  you  through.  You  been 
havin'  some  trouble,  ain't  you?"  he  asked,  his  eyes 


182  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

gleaming  with  interest.  "We  heard  somethin'  that 
sounded  like  shots  an'  Mr.  Westlake  saw  the  first 
bunch  go  away.  He  said  you  waved  to  him  it  was  all 
right.  Aunt,  she  'lowed  you  c'ud  look  out  fo'  your- 
selves. Then  the  second  bunch  come  erlong." 

"Jest  wishin'  us  luck,  son,"  said  Sandy.  "How's 
everything  with  you  ?' 

"I  bet  it  warn't  good  luck  they  was  wishin'," 
grinned  Ed,  squatting  down  on  his  haunches  and  roll- 
ing a  cigarette.  "We're  gettin'  on  fine.  Got  some 
dandy  claims,  I  reckon.  One  for  maw  an'  one  fo' 
father,  right  alongside  Aunt  Mirandy's  an'  mine.  It 
'ud  be  great  if  we  sh'ud  all  strike  it  rich,  to  once, 
w'udn't  it?" 

"Great !"  agreed  Sandy,  munching  beans  with  gusto. 
"Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  be  gettin'  back,  'case 
some  one  might  take  a  notion  to  them  claims  of  yores  ? 
'Pears  to  me  it's  up  to  you,  Ed,  to  protect  yore  aunt. 
Westlake  can't  stick  around  with  you  all  the  time. 
He's  got  his  business  to  attend  to." 

Young  Ed  straightened. 

"I'll  look  out  for  her  all  right,"  he  said.  "But  you 
don't  know  Aunt  Mirandy  over  well  or  you'd  know 
she  can  do  her  own  protectin'.  You  bet  she  can. 
'Sides,  the  men  who've  got  claims  nigh  us  come  over 
an'  told  her  they'd  see  she  wasn't  interfered  with  none. 
Said  they'd  heard  some  bully  had  sworn  at  her  an'  the 
real  miners  in  camp  warn't  goin'  to  stand  anything 
like  that.  Nor  no  claim-jumpin'.  They're  goin'  to 
organize,  they  say.  Git  up  a  Vigilance  Committee." 


WHITE  GOLD  183 

"Good!"  said  Sandy.  "That  means  the  decent  ele- 
ment aims  to  run  things.  We'll  help  'em.  It'll  be 
easier  with  Plimsoll  out  of  camp." 

"Figger  he'll  go?"  asked  Sam. 

"I  w'udn't  be  surprised  if  he  listened  to  the  small 
voice  of  reason,"  answered  Sandy.  "You  tell  yore 
aunt  we're  much  obliged  fo'  the  grub,  Ed.  One  of 
us'll  be  over  afteh  a  bit  an'  tote  our  things  across. 
We'll  camp  here  fo'  a  bit  an'  sit  tight.  I'd  do  the 
same,  if  I  was  you,  Ed,  spite  of  yore  friends.  I  don't 
doubt  fo'  a  minute  but  what  yore  aunt  is  plumb  capable 
of  lookin'  out  for  herself,  but  you  see,  she's  a  woman 
an'  yo're  a  man,  an'  it's  you  folks'll  be  lookin'  to." 

The  lad  flushed  with  pride  under  the  hand  that 
Sandy  set  in  chummy  fashion  on  his  shoulder. 

"I'll  do  that,"  he  said,  and,  picking  up  the  emptied 
utensils  he  had  brought  he  started  off  down  and 
across  the  gulch. 

"No  sense  in  encouragin5  him  to  hang  around  us/' 
said  Sandy.  "There's  apt  to  be  fireworks  round  here 
most  any  time  between  now  an'  ter-morrer  mo'nin'. 
Plimsoll'll  shack  erlong  about  sun-up — providin'  he 
ain't  able  to  call  the  tuhn  on  us  befo'.  Mormon,  if 
you'll  go  git  our  blankets  an'  outfit,  Sam  an'  me'll 
fix  up  those  bu'sted  guy  ropes  an'  shift  the  tent." 

"You  don't  aim  fo'  us  to  sleep  in  it  do  you  ?"  asked 
Mormon. 

"Don't  believe  we'd  rest  well  if  we  tackled  it.  But 
it  mightn't  be  a  bad  scheme  if  we  give  the  gen'ral 
idee  that  we  are  sleepin'  in  it.  I  put  a  lantern  in  the 


184  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

car  when  we  stahted.    Fetch  that  erlong  too,  will  you, 
Mormon  ?" 

It  was  late  afternoon  before  Mormon  reappeared, 
bearing  a  camp  outfit,  part  of  which  was  carried  by 
Westlake.  Sandy  and  Sam  had  repitched  the  tent  on 
fairly  level  ground  of  the  valley  bottom.  The  claim 
boundaries  ran  to  within  fifty  yards  of  the  little  creek 
named  Flivver  and  the  tent-pins  were  set  almost  on 
the  border-line.  The  ground  was  sparsely  covered 
with  scrub  grass,  shrubs  and  willows,  the  space  about 
the  tent  clear  of  anything  higher  than  clumps  of  bushes 
and  sage. 

Mormon's  eye  brows  went  up  at  the  location  with 
which  Sandy  and  Sam,  seated  cross-legged  on  the 
ground,  one  smoking,  the  other  draining  low  harmonies 
through  his  mouth  organ,  appeared  perfectly  satisfied. 
"Why  on  the  flat?"  asked  Mormon.  "There's  a 
heap  of  cover  round  here  where  they  might  snake  up 
afteh  dahk  an'  sling  anythin'  they  minded  to  at  us, 
from  lead  to  giant  powdeh !" 

"Wai,"  drawled  Sandy,  flicking  the  ash  from  his 
cigarette,  "it's  handy  to  watch,  fo'  one  thing,  an'  yore 
right  about  that  coveh,  Mormon.  That's  why  we 
chose  it.  Sam  an'  me  had  a  heap  of  trouble  pickin'  out 
this  place.  Finally  we  found  jest  what  we  wanted, 
didn't  we,  Sam?" 
"Sure  did." 

Mormon  set  down  his  load  and  took  off  his  hat  to 
scratch  his  head  perplexedly.  Then  his  face  lightened 
as  he  looked  up-hill. 


WHITE  GOLD  185 

"You  figger  on  settin'  the  lantern  in  here  afteh 
dahk,"  he  said.  "An*  watchin'  the  fun  from  the  tunnel." 

"Pritty  close,  Mormon.  Come  inside,  you  an' 
Westlake,  an'  I'll  show  you  suthin'." 

They  followed  him  into  the  tent  and  came  out  again 
laughing. 

"No  matteh  what  happens,"  said  Sandy,  "an*  I'm 
hopin'  fo'  the  worst,  it  ain't  our  tent.  You  been  up 
to  the  main  street  this  afternoon,  Westlake  ?" 

"Yes.  There's  a  lot  of  talk  loose  about  the  trouble 
between  you  and  Plimsoll's  crowd.  Factions  for  both 
sides  and  a  lot  of  onlookers  who  are  neutral  and  just 
waiting  for  the  excitement.  I  saw  Roaring  Russell 
but  he  passed  me  up.  He  might  not  have  known  me. 
He  was  pretty  well  drunk.  He's  talking  big  about 
taking  you  apart,  Mr.  Peters.  He  claims  to  have 
been  a  champion  wrestler  at  one  time." 

"You  don't  say  so,"  said  Mormon.  "Me,  I  was  the 
champeen  wrastler  of  the  Cow  Belt,  one  time.  Had 
the  belt  to  prove  it  till  I  lost  it  at  draw  poker.  I've 
got  hawg  fat  sence  then,  but  I  don't  believe  I've  soft- 
ened any.  An'  the  booze  he's  tuckin'  away  is  mighty 
pore  stuff  fo'  trainin'.  But  I  ain't  long  on  walkin'," 
he  added.  "B'lieve  I'll  sit  me  down  a  spell.  I'll  make 
fire  an'  git  supper  if  you  want  to  take  Westlake  up 
to  the  tunnel." 

Westlake  carefully  inspected  the  tunnel,  the  float 
and  the  contents  of  the  dump. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder  if  Casey  was  running  this  as  a 
drift  to  follow  a  good  lead,"  he  pronounced.  "It 


186  RTMROCK  TRAIL 

looks  better  to  me  than  any  part  of  the  camp  I've 
inspected.  I'll  assay  these  samples  for  you,  if  you've 
no  objection.  I've  got  a  lot  of  orders  back  at  my 
shack  already.  My  customers  told  me  that  they'd  put 
a  flea  in  Russell's  ear  that  the  camp  assayer  was  not 
to  be  interfered  with,  so  there  is  some  value  in  an 
education,  you  see." 

Sandy  nodded.    "You  pack  a  gun  ?"  he  asked. 

"No.  I've  got  one,  but  I  don't  carry  it.  My  prac- 
tise with  firearms  has  been  with  larger  calibers." 

"War?"  asked  Sandy. 

"Yes.  I  was  in  the  artillery.  Is  there  anything  else 
I  can  do?  Get  you  some  supplies?  I'm  coming  back 
to  have  supper  with  Miss  Bailey  and  her  nephew." 

"Not  a  thing,"  said  Sandy.  "Much  obliged."  He 
watched  the  engineer  swing  away. 

"There's  a  good  man  for  you,"  he  said  to  Sam. 
"Well  set  up  and  able  to  handle  himself.  I  like  his 
ways  first-rate." 

"Me,  too,"  said  Sam.  "He'd  make  a  good  match 
fo'  Molly,  when  she  comes  back  with  her  eddication. 
w'udn'the?" 

Sandy  stopped  in  his  stride  suddenly,  so  that  Sam 
halted  and  regarded  him  curiously. 

"Twist  yo'  foot?"  he  asked.  "High  heels  is  all 
right  fo'  stirrups  but  they're  tough  on  hill  climbin'." 

"No.  I  was  jest  thinkin'.  Nothin'  that  amounts  to 
shucks.  Gettin'  dahk.  We  better  git  outside  of  our 
supper  an*  sneak  up  to  the  tunnel  soon's  it  gits  dusk 
enough  to  light  the  lantern." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  ROPE  BREAKS 

THE  lantern,  turned  down,  dimly  illumined  the 
tent  and  revealed  the  figures  of  three  men  seated 
about  some  sort  of  rough  table.  The  flap  was 
drawn  and  fastened.  Occasionally  a  figure  moved 
slightly.  No  passer-by  would  have  guessed  that  the 
three  partners  were  ensconced  in  the  black  mouth  of 
the  tunnel,  ramparted  by  the  dump  heap,  watching  for 
developments  they  were  fairly  sure  would  start  with 
darkness.  Every  little  while  Sandy  twitched  a  line 
that  was  attached  to  a  clumsy  but  effective  rocker  he 
had  contrived  beneath  one  of  the  dummies  they  had 
built  from  the  stuff  that  Plimsoll  had  not  reclaimed. 

"Don't  want  to  work  the  blamed  thing  too  much," 
he  said.  "Might  bu'st  it.  It's  on'y  the  one  figger 
but  I'll  be  derned  if  it  don't  look  natcherul." 

After  which  they  all  relapsed  into  silence,  restrained 
from  smoking  for  fear  of  a  telltale  spark  or  casual 
fragrance  carried  by  the  wind.  It  was  a  dark  night, 
the  hillsides  stood  blurry  against  a  blue-black  sky  in 
which  the  stars  glittered  like  metal  points  but  failed 
to  shed  much  light.  Later,  much  later,  toward  morn- 
ing, a  moon  would  rise. 

Here  and  there  on  the  slopes  bright  spots  or  glows 


i88  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

of  fire  marked  the  occupied  claim-sites.  From  the 
camp  itself  there  came  a  murmur  that  sometimes 
swelled  louder  under  the  dull  flare  that  hung  over  the 
lower  end  of  the  valley;  reflection  and  diffusion  from 
the  gasoline  lights  and  acetylene  flares  used  by  the 
owners  of  the  eating-houses,  the  bars  and  gambling 
shacks,  all  open  for  business  during  miners'  hours, 
which  meant  two  shifts,  of  night  and  day. 

From  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel  the  three  watched 
the  march  of  the  stars,  the  wheel  of  the  Big  Dipper 
around  its  pivot,  the  North  Star;  marking  time  by 
the  sidereal  dock  of  the  heavens,  each  with  a  variant 
emotion. 

Mormon  shifted  his  position  more  frequently  than 
the  others.  None  of  them  was  especially  comfortable, 
but  Mormon  wanted  to  keep  as  limber  as  possible,  he 
was  afraid  of  stiffening  up,  thinking  always  of  his 
challenge  to  Roaring  Russell.  Slow  to  anger,  Mor- 
mon, when  his  rage  mounted  was  slow  of  statement. 
What  he  said  he  meant.  The  insult  to  Miranda  Bailey 
while  under  his  escort  chafed  him  as  a  saddle  chafes 
a  galled  horse.  It  had  to  be  wiped  out  at  the  earliest 
moment  and,  singularly  enough,  the  spinster  was  not 
particularly  prominent  in  the  matter.  It  was  not  a 
personal  question;  the  insult  had  been  offered  to  wo- 
manhood, and  Mormon  was  ever  its  champion  and  its 
victim. 

Sam,  cut  off  from  tobacco  and  melody,  bunkered 
down  with  his  back  against  a  frame  timber  and  looked 
at  the  tall  lean  figure  of  Sandy  silhouetted  against  the 


A  ROPE  BREAKS  i«9 

stars,  wondering  why  Sandy  had  stopped  so  abruptly 
when  the  names  of  Westlake  and  Molly  Casey  had  been 
coupled.  It  wasn't  like  Sandy  to  move  or  halt  with- 
out definite  purpose,  Sam  reasoned.  "I  suppose  he 
figgers  Molly  too  much  of  a  kid,"  he  told  himself. 
"If  these  claims  pan  out  she'll  be  rich.  Likewise,  so 
will  we/'  His  thoughts  shifted  to  dreams  of  what 
he  would  do  when  they  were  wealthy.  Very  far 
beyond  the  purchase  of  an  elaborate  saddle  and  outfit, 
a  horse  or  two  he  coveted,  the  finest  harmonica  to  be 
bought,  he  did  not  go.  That  Sandy  might  have  felt 
a  tinge  of  jealousy  toward  young  Westlake  was 
furthest  from  his  conjectures. 

As  for  Sandy,  he  had  lost  his  mental  orientation. 
Something  had  happened,  something  was  happening 
within  him  and  he  could  not  tell  the  process  nor  name 
it.  He  was  as  a  man  who  goes  out  into  the  darkness 
amid  rooms  and  passages  with  which  he  considers 
himself  familiar  and  suddenly — there  comes  a  door 
where  should  be  space,  or  space  where  there  should 
be  a  window — and  he  is  lost,  his  senses  betray  him, 
for  the  moment  he  is  completely  fogged,  all  bearings 
lost,  possessed  with  the  blankness  that  accompanies 
the  flight  of  self-confidence. 

He  could  see  very  plainly  in  mental  vision  the  pic- 
ture that  Molly  had  sent  to  the  Three  Star,  now  framed 
and  given  the  place  of  honor  on  the  table  of  the  ranch- 
house  living-room.  The  picture  of  a  girl  in  whose 
eyes  the  fleeting  look  of  womanhood,  that  Sandy  had 
now  and  then  seen  there  and  which  had  thrilled  him 


190  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

so  strangely,  had  become  permanent.  That  she  was 
something  so  vital  she  could  not  be  dismissed  from 
the  life  of  the  Three  Star,  from  his  own  life,  by  send- 
ing her  to  school  whence  she  would  return  almost  a 
stranger,  by  making  her  an  heiress,  Sandy  recognized. 
He  had  deliberately  given  her  his  hand  to  help  her  out 
of  the  rut  in  which  he  had  found  her  and  now,  with 
the  swift  series  of  tableaux  conjured  up  by  Sam's  sug- 
gestion of  her  and  Westlake  together,  lovers,  Sandy 
realized  the  gap  that  was  widening  between  Molly  and 
him.  If  she  was  out  of  the  rut  would  she  not  now 
regard  him  as  in  another  of  his  own  from  which  there 
was  no  up-lifting? 

To  Sandy,  Westlake  seemed  little  more  than  a  lik- 
able lad,  placing  him  at  about  twenty-three  or  four. 
He  felt  immeasurably  older,  harder,  though  there  were 
not  more  than  six  years  between  them — seven  at  the 
most.  Even  that  made  him  almost  twice  the  age  of 
Molly.  With  this  twist  of  his  reverie  he  realized  that 
Molly  was  no  longer  to  be  considered  as  a  girl.  To- 
ward the  little  maid  he  had  poured  out  protect! veness, 
affection  and,  while  his  vials  were  emptying,  she  had 
crossed  the  brook.  Into  what  had  his  affection  shifted 
with  the  changing  of  Molly  to  womanhood? 

Sandy  Bourke,  knight  of  the  roving  heel,  had  never 
attempted  to  find  solution  for  his  attitude  toward 
women.  It  was  neither  wariness  nor  antipathy.  His 
life,  drifting  from  rancho  to  rancho,  sometimes  con- 
sorting with  the  rougher  side  of  men  careless  of  con- 
ventions, had  been,  in  the  main,  not  unlike  the  life  of 


A  ROPE  BREAKS  191 

a  hermit,  with  long  periods  when  he  rode  alone  under 
sun  and  stars  with  only  his  horse  for  company. 

There  were  months  of  this  and  then  came  swiftly 
moving*  periods  of  relaxation  in  a  cattle  town  where 
men  unleashed  the  repressions  and  let  pent-up  ener- 
gies and  appetites  have  full  sway.  Sandy  loved  card 
chances  where  his  own  skill  might  back  what  luck  the 
pasteboards  brought  him  in  the  deal.  Drinking  bouts, 
the  company  of  the  women  with  whom  many  of  his 
fellows  consorted,  never  appealed  to  him.  His  reser- 
vations found  outlet  in  gambling  or  in  the  acceptance 
of  some  job  where  the  danger  risks  ran  high,  where 
success  and  self-safety  hung  upon  his  coolness,  his 
keen  sense,  his  courage  and  his  skill  with  horse  and 
lariat  and  gun.  A  life  as  apart  as  a  sailor's,  more 
lonely,  for  he  was  often  companionless  for  months. 

So  far  he  had  never  felt  lack  of  anything,  least  of 
all  lately,  with  the  two  men  he  liked  best  in  active 
partnership  with  him,  with  a  maturing  interest  in  the 
development  of  his  ranch  and  his  grade  of  cattle  by 
modern  methods.  But,  to  have  Molly  not  come  back, 
or,  returning,  to  have  her  wooed  and  won,  entirely 
absorbed  by  some  one  like  Westlake,  struck  him  with 
a  sense  of  impending  loss  that  amounted  to  a  real  pain, 
difficult  of  self-diagnosis.  Westlake  was  worthy 
enough.  A  good  mate  for  Molly,  climbing  up  the 
ladder  of  education  and  culture  to  stand  where  the 
engineer,  well-bred,  well-mannered,  now  stood,  the 
two  of  them  to  go  on  together.  .  . 

"Shucks!"  muttered  Sandy.     "And  he  ain't  even 


192  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

seen  her  picture.     I   must  have  been   chewin'   loco 
weed." 

"What  say?"  asked  Sam. 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  a  HT  look-see,"  said  Sandy.  "I 
reckon  they're  tryin'  to  git  warmed  up  an'  decide  on 
what  they'll  do  round  here.  No  tellin'  how  long  they 
may  take  or  what  kind  of  deviltry  that  camp  booze 
may  work  'em  up  to.  I'm  pritty  certain  no  one  saw 
us  sneak  out  of  the  tent  afteh  dahk." 

If  they  had  been  seen  no  attempt  might  be  made  to 
dislodge  them  from  the  claims.  Sandy  did  not  believe 
such  effort  would  turn  out  to  be  a  shooting  match,— 
unless  the  defenders  started  it, — but  something  more 
underhanded.  The  flinging  of  a  dynamite  stick,  if 
the  throwers  felt  certain  of  not  being  caught,  was  a 
possibility  if  enough  crude  whisky  had  been  absorbed. 
In  all  probability  the  crowd  of  ousted  men  were  mak- 
ing themselves  conspicuous  in  the  camp  during  the 
earlier  hours  of  the  evening  in  view  of  a  needed  alibi. 
Nothing  might  happen  until  midnight  and  the  long 
vigil  was  not  comfortable.  Sandy  vanished  from  the 
tunnel  mouth,  sinking  to  the  ground,  instantly  indis- 
tinguishable even  to  Sam  and  Mormon.  There  was 
nothing  to  tell  whether  he  had  gone  up-hill  or  down. 
The  momentary  cessation  of  the  cicadas'  chorus  was 
the  only  warning  that  a  human  was  abroad. 

"Have  a  chaw?"     Mormon  whispered  presently, 
after  he  had  changed  his  pose. 

Sam  took  the  plug  tobacco  and  bit  into  it  gratefully. 

"I  sure  hate  stickin'  around,  waitin',"  he  said  under 
his  breath.  "Allus  makes  me  plumb  nerv'us." 


A  ROPE  BREAKS  193 

"Same  here/'  answered  Mormon.  "Reckon  it's 
that  way  with  most  men.  Sandy  don't  show  it,  'cept 
by  goin'  out  on  a  snoop." 

"He  can  see,  smell  an'  hear  where  we'd  be  deef, 
dumb  an'  blind,"  said  Sam.  "Wonder  what  time  it 
is?  We've  been  here  all  of  two  hours  already 'cordin' 
to  them  stars." 

"What  time  does  the  moon  rise?"  asked  Mormon. 

"'Bout  half  past  three  or  so.  You  figgerin'  on 
wrastlin'  Roarin'  Russell  by  moonlight,  after  we  git 
through  down  here?" 

"I've  got  a  hunch  this  is  goin'  to  be  a  busy  night, 
plumb  through  till  sun-up,"  said  Mormon.  "An', 
when  I  meet  up  with  Roarin'  Russell  it  ain't  goin'  to 
be  jest  a  wrastlin  match,  believe  me.  It's  goin'  to  be 
a  free-fo'-all  exhibition  of  ground  an'  lofty  tumblin', 
'thout  rounds,  seconds  or  referee.  When  one  of  us 
hits  the  ground  it'll  likely  be  fo'  keeps." 

"I  ain't  seen  you  so  riled  up  in  a  long  time,  old- 
timer.  An'  I'm  backin'  you  fo'  winner,  at  that.  Jest 
the  same,  me  an'  Sandy'll  do  a  KT  refereein'  fo'  the 
sake  of  fair  play." 

"I  can  hear  you  two  gossipin'  old  wimmin  gabbin' 
clear  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill  an'  down  to  the  crick," 
added  a  third  voice  as  Sandy  glided  in,  materializing 
from  the  darkness. 

"Anythin'  doin'  ?"  asked  Sam. 

"No,  an'  there  won't  be  long  as  you  air  yo'  voices. 
You  play  like  an  angel  on  that  mouth  harp  of  yores, 
Sam,  but  you  talk  like  a  rasp.  Mormon  booms  like  a 
bull  frawg." 


194  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

They  settled  down  again  to  their  watch.  The  Great 
Bear  constellation  dipped  down,  scooping  into  the 
darkness  beyond  the  opposing  hill. 

"Pritty  close  to  midnight,"  said  Sam  at  last. 
"What's  the  .  .  ." 

Sandy's  grip  on  his  arm  checked  him,  all  senses  cen- 
tering into  listening. 

The  three  stared  blankly  into  the  night,  while  their 
hands  sought  gun  butts  and  loosened  the  weapons  in 
their  holsters.  Out  of  the  blackness  came  little  foreign 
sounds  that  they  interpreted  according  to  their  powers. 
The  tiny  clink  of  metal,  the  faint  thud  of  horses'  hoofs, 
an  exclamation  that  had  barely  been  above  the  speak- 
er's breath  floated  up  to  them  through  the  stillness. 
The  glow  of  the  lantern  showed  through  the  tent  wall. 

"Two  riders,"  mouthed  Sandy  so  softly  that  Mor- 
mon and  Sam  swung  heads  to  catch  his  words.  "Came 
up  the  valley  t'other  side  of  the  crick.  Both  crossed 
it  above  the  tent.  Reckon  they're  visitin'  us.  One  of 
?em's  comin'  this  way." 

They  crouched,  breathless  now,  listening  to  the  soft 
padded  sounds  that  told  of  the  approach  of  man  and 
horse.  These  ceased.  Still  they  could  see  nothing. 
Then  there  came  a  sharp  shrill  whistle,  answered  from 
the  levels.  Followed  instantly  the  thud  of  galloping 
ponies  going  at  top  speed,  parallel,  one  between  the 
watchers  and  the  tent  as  they  saw  the  swift  shadow 
shade  the  glow  for  an  instant,  the  other  between  the 
tent  and  the  creek.  There  was  a  sharp  swishing  as 
of  something  whipping  brush. 


A  ROPE  BREAKS  195 

"Yi-yi-yippy !"  The  cries  rang  out  exultant  as  the 
horses  dashed  by  the  tunnel  The  light  in  the  tent 
wavered,  went  out.  There  was  a  shout  of  surprise  and 
dismay,  a  twang  like  the  snapping  of  a  mighty  bow- 
string and  then  came  the  whoops  of  the  trio  from  the 
Three  Star  as  they  realized  what  the  attempt  had  been 
and  how  it  had  failed. 

Two  riders,  trailing  a  rope,  had  raced  down  the  val- 
ley hoping  to  sweep  away  the  tent,  to  send  its  occu- 
pant sprawling,  its  contents  scattered  in  a  confusion 
of  which  advantage  Avould  be  taken  to  chase  the  three 
off  their  claims,  taken  by  surprise,  made  ridiculous. 

Sandy  and  Sam,  searching  for  a  convenient  tent 
site,  had  happened  upon  a  mass  of  outcrop,  overgrown 
by  brush.  Over  this  they  had  pitched  the  tent,  using 
the  rock  for  table,  propping  their  dummies  about  it. 
If  dynamite  was  flung  it  would  find  something  to 
work  against.  They  had  not  anticipated  the  use  of 
the  rope  to  demolish  the  canvas  any  more  than  the  two 
riders  had  expected  to  bring  up  against  a  boulder.  The 
impact,  with  their  ponies  spurred,  urged  on  by  their 
shouts  to  their  limit,  tore  the  cinches  of  one  saddle 
loose,  jerked  it  from  the  horse  and  catapulted  the 
unprepared  rider  over  its  head,  flying  through  the  air 
to  land  heavily,  while  his  mount,  unencumbered, 
frightened,  went  careering  off  leaving  its  breathless 
master  stunned  amid  the  sage. 

As  the  cinches  had  given  way  at  one  end,  the  line 
itself  had  parted  at  the  other.  The  second  pony  had 
stumbled  sidewise,  rolling  before  the  man  was  free 


196  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

from  the  saddle.  They  could  hear  it  thrashing  in  the 
willows,  the  rider  cursing  as  he  tried  to  remount  while 
Sandy  ran  cat-footed  down  the  hill,  leaving  Mormon 
and  Sam  to  handle  the  other.  If  there  had  been  as- 
sistants to  the  raid  they  had  melted  away,  willing 
enough  to  join  in  a  drive  against  men  yanked  from 
their  tent,  defenseless,  but  not  at  all  eager  to  face  the 
guns  of  those  same  men  on  the  alert,  the  aggressive. 

Mormon  and  Sam  found  their  man  groaning  and 
limp. 

"Don't  believe  he's  bu'sted  anything,"  announced 
Sam,  "  'less  he's  druv  his  neck  inter  his  shoulders. 
Got  his  saddle,  Mormon?" 

"Yep.     Want  the  rope?" 

They  trussed  their  captive  with  the  lariat  still 
snubbed  to  his  saddle-horn.  Down  in  the  willows 
there  was  a  flash,  a  report,  a  scurrying  flight  punc- 
tuated by  an  oath  almost  as  vivid  as  the  shot.  Sandy 
came  up  the  hill  toward  them. 

"Miss  him?"  asked  Mormon. 

"It  was  sure  dahk,"  said  Sandy,  "and  I  hated  to 
plug  the  hawss.  So  I  only  took  one  shot  to  cheer  him 
on  his  way.  He  was  mountin'  at  the  time  an'  it  was  a 
snapshot.  I  aimed  at  the  seat  of  his  pants.  I  w'udn't 
be  surprised  but  what  he's  ridin'  so't  of  one-sided. 
Who  you  got  here?  Tote  him  down-hill.  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  bu'sted  the  lantern.  We'll  take  a  look  at  him." 

Sandy  retrieved  the  lantern  from  the  collapsed  can- 
vas and  lit  it.  Mormon  and  Sam  took  the  senseless 
man  down  to  the  creek  where  they  attempted  to  revive 


A  ROPE  BREAKS  197 

him  by  pouring  hatfuls  of  the  icy  water  on  his  head. 
He  was  a  black-haired  chap,  sallow  of  face,  clean- 
shaven. His  clothes  were  those  of  a  cowman. 

"Looks  a  heap  like  a  drowned  rat,"  said  Mormon. 
"It's  Sol  Wyatt,  one  of  Plim's  riders  oveh  to  his 
hawss  ranch.  He  got  fired  from  the  Two-Bar-Circle 
fo'  leavin'  his  ridin'  iron  to  home  an*  usin'  anotheh 
brand.  Leastwise,  that's  what  they  suspected.  Old 
Man  Penny  giv'  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  an' 
jest  kicked  him  out  of  the  corral.  If  he'd  had  the 
goods  on  him  he'd  have  skinned  him  alive  an*  put 
his  pelt  on  the  bahn  do'  fo'  a  warnin'." 

"The  damn  fool  rode  a  single-fire  saddle  fo'  a  job 
like  that,"  said  Sam.  "No  wonder  it  bu'sted.  He's 
sniff  in',  Sandy;  what  we  goin'  to  do  with  him?" 

"Take  him  up  inter  camp,  soon's  he's  able  to  walk 
an'  hand  him  over  to  Plimsoll  with  our  compliments. 
They  figgered  they'd  make  us  all  look  plumb  ridicu- 
lous with  bein'  flipped  out  of  the  tent.  Then  they'd 
have  had  the  crowd  on  their  side  erlong  with  the  la'f, 
way  it  usually  goes.  Don't  drown  him,  Mormon,  he 
don't  look  oveh  used  to  water,  to  me." 

Wyatt  opened  a  pair  of  shifty  black  eyes  to  con- 
sciousness and  the  light  of  the  lantern  and  immediately 
closed  them  again,  playing  opossum.  Sam  prodded 
him  gently  in  the  ribs. 

"Wake  up,  Sol,"  he  said.  "Come  back  to  earth, 
you  sky-salutin'  circus-rider.  You  sure  looped  the 
loops  'fore  you  lit.  Serves  you  right  fo'  usin'  a  one- 
cinch  saddle.  Git  up!" 


198  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Wyatt  gasped  and  sat  up,  grinning  foolishly. 

"What  happened?"  he  asked. 

"Nothin',"  answered  Sandy.  "Jest  nothing  Who 
was  your  buckaroo  friend  on  the  otheh  end  of  the 
rope?" 

"I  dunno.    Never  saw  him  before  to-night." 

"Pal  of  Jim  Plimsoll?" 

"I  dunno.  Nobuddy  I  know.  Nobuddy  you  know, 
I  reckon." 

"I'll  know  him  likely  next  time  I  run  across  him/' 
said  Sandy.  "He's  packiir  a  saddle  brand  I  put  on 
him."  His  voice  was  grimly  humorous,  he  recog- 
nized Wyatt's  obstinacy  as  something  not  without 
merit.  "How's  yore  haid?" 

"Some  tender." 

"It  ain't  in  first-rate  condition  or  you  w'udn't  be 
drawin'  pay  from  Plimsoll.  Yore  saddle's  here,  yore 
hawss  went  west.  Ef  you  want  to  leave  the  saddle  till 
you  locate  the  hawss,  you  can  git  it  'thout  any  trouble 
any  time  you  come  fo'  it.  Or  you  can  pack  it  with 
you  now.  We're  goin'  up  to  camp." 

"Figger  it's  safe  to  leave  yore  claims  now?"  asked 
Wyatt  cheerfully. 

"I  don't  figger  we'll  be  jumped  ag'in  befo'  moni- 
in',"  replied  Sandy.  "Ef  we  are,  why,  we'll  have  to 
start  the  arguments  all  over." 

"I  w'udn't  be  surprised,"  said  the  philosophic 
Wyatt,  gingerly  pressing  his  head  with  his  finger- 
tips, "but  what  there  is  a  gen'ral  impression  'stab- 
lished  by  this  time  that  you  three  hombres  from  the 


A  ROPE  BREAKS  199 

Three  Star  are  right  obstinate  about  considerin'  this 
yore  property/' 

"You  leavin'  camp  with  Plimsoll  in  the  mornin'?" 
Mormon  asked  casually. 

"I  heard  some  rumor  about  his  hittin'  the  sunrise 
trail/'  said  Wyatt.  "Ef  he  goes,  I  stay.  I'm  a  liT 
fed  up  on  Jim  Plimsoll  lately.  He  pulls  too  much  on 
his  picket  line  to  suit  me.  Ef  he's  got  a  yeller  stripe 
on  his  belly,  I'm  quittin'.  Some  day  he's  goin'  to  git 
inter  a  hole  that'll  sure  test  his  standard.  Me,  I  may 
be  a  bit  of  a  wolf,  but  I'm  damned  ef  I  trail  with 
coyotes.  I'll  leave  my  saddle.  Any  of  you  got  the 
makin's?  I  seem  to  have  lost  most  everything  but 
my  clothes.  I  shed  a  gun  round  here  somewheres." 

"You  can  have  it  when  you  come  back  fo'  yore  sad- 
dle, Wyatt,"  said  Sandy.  "Where  was  you  an'  yore 
unknown  pal  goin'  to  repo't  back  to  Plimsoll?" 

Wyatt  grinned  in  the  lantern  light. 

"Ef  we  trailed  inter  his  place  an'  made  a  bet  on  the 
red  over  to  the  faro  table  he'd  sabe  everything  went 
off  fine  an'  dandy.  He  w'udn't  figger  we'd  show  at 
all  if  it  didn't  come  off.  An'  we  w'udn't  have." 

"There  was  one  or  two  mo'  staked  out  in  the  brush> 
'less  my  hearin's  gone  back  on  me,"  said  Sandy. 
"Seemed  to  me  I  heard  'em  makin'  their  getaway.  I 
suppose  you  don't  know  their  names,  either?" 

"No,  sir,  I  sure  don't.  An'  I  don't  imagine  they'll 
be  showin'  up  at  Plimsoll' s  right  off.  It  was  a  win- 
or-lose  job.  Pay  if  it  was  pulled  off.  Otherwise, 
nothin'  doin*.  You  hombres  treated  me  white. 


200  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

There's  a  lot  who'd  have  plugged  me  full  of  lead  an' 
death.  I  was  on  yore  land.  Ef  you  force  me  to  walk 
into  Plimsoll's  Place  ahead  of  you  I  ain't  resistin' 
none,  an'  I  shall  sure  admire  to  watch  Plim's  face 
when  he  sees  you-all  back  of  me." 

He  took  the  trail  ahead  of  them,  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  cigarette  glowing.  Behind  him  walked 
Sandy.  Wyatt  finished  his  smoke  and  started  to 
hum  a  tune. 

"Oh,  I'm  wild  an'  woolly  an'  full  of  fleas, 
I'm  hard  to  curry  below  the  knees. 

I'm  a  wild  he-wolf  from  Cripple  Crick, 
An'  this  is  my  night  to  howl. 

,  "I  ain't  got  a  friend  but  my  hawss  an'  gun, 

The  last  kin  shoot  an'  the  first  kin  run, 
An'  I'm  a  rovin'  son-of-a-gun, 
An'  this  is  my  night  to  howl." 

"He's  a  cool  sort  of  a  cuss,"  said  Sam  to  Mormon. 
"I  reckon  he's  a  bad  actor,  but  there's  sure  somethin* 
erbout  the  galoot  I  like.  He  ain't  over  fond  of  Plim- 
soll,  that's  a  sure  thing,  if  he  is  workin'  fo'  him.  Won- 
der why?" 

"They  tell  me,"  replied  Mormon,  "thet  Plimsoll's 
apt  to  be  fond  of  the  other  feller's  gal.  He  ain't 
satisfied  with  what  he  can  pick  for  himself.  T'otheh 
feller's  apple  allus  has  a  sweeter  core.  I  w'udn't 
wondeh  but  what  that  was  the  trouble.  Plim  ain't 
got  any  mo'  respect  fo'  wimmen  than  hell  has  fo' 
fryin'  souls." 


A  ROPE  BREAKS  201 

"Uh-huh!  He  w'udn't  go  round  pickin'  a  scrap 
with  Roarin'  Russell  on  their  account,  fer  instance?" 

Mormon  paid  no  attention  to  the  friendly  gibe.  As 
they  entered  the  street  of  the  camp,  largely  deserted, 
though  there  was  every  evidence  of  crowds  forgetting 
time  in  the  drinking  and  gambling  shacks,  Sandy 
moved  up  even  with  Wyatt  and  locked  arms  with  him. 

"I  ain't  goin'  ter  make  no  break,"  said  Wyatt. 
"Here's  Plim's.  Jest  you  let  me  go  in  ahead  through 
the  door.  I've  seen  you  use  your  guns.  I  ain't 
suicidin'." 

They  allowed  him  to  go  in  first,  unescorted.  Their 
plans  held  no  further  reprisal  against  Wyatt. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  FREE-FOR-ALL 

PLIMSOLL'S  PLACE  was  crowded.  There  were 
more  onlookers  than  actual  players  though  the 
tables  were  fairly  well  patronized.  Many  of  those 
who  had  seats  were  only  cappers  for  the  game.  The 
majority  of  the  men  who  had  rushed  to  the  new  strike 
had  not  brought  any  great  sums  of  money  with  them, 
or,  if  they  had,  reserved  its  use  for  speculation  in 
claims  rather  than  the  slimmer  chances  of  PlimsoH's 
enterprises.  In  a  few  days,  if  the  camp  produced 
from  grass  roots,  as  was  expected  and  hoped,  Plimsoll 
would  gather  in  his  harvest.  A  garnering  in  which 
Sandy  had  sadly  interfered. 

Plimsoll  had  set  up  a  working  partnership  with  a 
man  who  had  brought  moonshine  and  bootlegged 
whisky  to  the  camp,  occupying  the  next  shack  to  the 
gambling  place.  For  convenience  of  service  extra 
doors  had  been  cut  and  a  rough-boarded  passageway 
erected  between  the  two  places.  The  fever  of  gam- 
bling provided  thirsty  customers  for  the  liquor  dealer, 
and  the  whisky  blunted  the  wits  of  the  gamblers  and 
gave  the  dealers  more  than  their  customary  percent- 
age of  odds  in  the  favor  of  the  house.  It  was  a  com- 

202 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  203 

bination  that  worked  both  ways.  Waiters  impressed 
into  service  from  camp  followers,  crudely  took  orders 
and  delivered  them.  There  were  no  mixed  drinks,  no 
scale  of  prices.  And  there  was  no  question  of  license. 
The  will  of  the  majority  ruled.  The  gold-seeking 
reduced  things  to  primitive  methods,  men  to  primitive 
manners. 

Plimsoll  himself  presided  over  the  stud-poker  table, 
dealing  the  game.  He  showed  nothing  of  the  nervous- 
ness that  crawled  beneath  his  skin.  He  awaited  the 
result  of  his  play  with  Wyatt  and  the  latter' s  com- 
panions. If  he  could  make  Sandy,  Mormon  and  Sam 
ridiculous,  he  would  achieve  his  end,  but  he  hoped  for 
bigger  results.  Wyatt  and  his  fellow  rider  had  been 
detailed  to  ride  down  the  tent  that  had  been  reported 
occupied  by  the  Three  Star  owners.  That  part  of  the 
plan  had  been  suggested  by  Wyatt  out  of  the  sheer 
deviltry  of  his  invention.  Plimsoll  had  enlisted  others 
of  his  following,  none  too  fearless,  to  loiter  in  the 
brush  and,  in  the  general  confusion,  fire  to  cripple  and 
to  kill. 

Plimsoll  had  learned  of  the  visit  of  the  men  who 
had  come  with  Bill  Brandon  to  investigate  PlimsoU's 
methods  of  running  the  Waterline  Horse  Ranch.  He 
had  learned,  through  the  leakage  that  always  occurs 
in  a  cattle  community,  that  Brandon  claimed  to  be  an 
old  acquaintance  of  Sandy  and  his  partners.  So  he 
had  told  his  men  who  had  come  with  him  to  the  camp 
from  the  Waterline  Ranch  that  the  Three  Star  outfit 
was  a  danger  to  all  of  them,  undoubtedly  acting  as 


204  R1MROCK  TRAIL 

spies  for  Brandon,  and  that  they  should  be  eliminated 
for  the  general  good.  But  there  was  none  of  them, 
from  Plimsoll  down,  who  had  any  fancy  to  stand  up 
against  the  guns  of  Sandy,  or  of  Mormon  and  Sam, 
when  the  breaks  were  anywhere  nearly  even. 

So  Plimsoll  dealt  stud  and  collected  the  percentage 
of  the  house,  watching  his  planted  players  profit  by 
their  professionalism  and  by  the  little  signs  bestowed 
upon  them  by  Plimsoll  that  tipped  them  off  as  to  the 
value  of  the  hidden  cards.  Plimsoll,  with  his  ejec- 
tion from  Hereford,  the  advent  of  woman  suffrage, 
the  coming  of  Brandon  and  other  irate  horse  owners, 
had  begun  to  realize  that  his  days  were  getting  short 
in  the  land.  He  looked  to  the  camp  for  a  final  coup. 
If  he  held  the  Casey  claims  and  sold  them,  as  he  ex- 
pected to  do,  to  an  eastern  capitalist  to  whom  he  had 
telegraphed  some  days  before,  he  might  reestablish 
himself.  Sandy's  prompt  arrival  and  subsequent 
events  had  crimped  that  plan  and  he  fell  back  upon  all 
the  crooked  tactics  that  he  possessed  in  gambling. 
And  now,  if  Wyatt  .  .  . 

He  was  dealing  the  last  card  around  when  Wyatt 
came  in  and  his  eyes  lit  up.  Then  his  face  stiffened, 
the  light  changed  to  a  gleam  of  malevolence.  Follow- 
ing Wyatt  were  the  three  partners,  taking  open  order 
as  they  came  through  the  entrance,  about  which  the 
space  was  clear,  Sandy  in  the  middle,  Mormon  on  the 
right  flank  and  Sam  on  the  left.  The  two  last  smiled 
and  nodded  to  one  or  two  acquaintances.  Sandy's  face 
was  set  in  serious  cast.  The  players  at  Plimsoll's 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  205 

table  turned  to  see  what  caused  the  suspension  of  the 
game,  others  followed  their  example.  The  Three  Star 
men  were  known  personally  to  some  of  those  in  the 
room.  The  story  of  what  had  happened  during  the  day 
had  buzzed  in  everybody's  ears,  from  Roaring  Rus- 
sell's discomfiture  to  PlimsolPs  failure  to  hold  the 
claims  and  the  eviction  notice  served  on  him  by  Sandy. 

The  phrase  "you'll  see  me  through  smoke,"  held  a 
grim  significance  that  touched  the  fancy  of  these  gold 
gatherers,  men  of  the  cruder  types  for  the  most  part. 
The  issue  between  Sandy  and  Plimsoll  was  the  para- 
mount topic,  they  wanted  to  see  the  two  men  face  to 
face  and  size  them  up.  There  was  no  especial  sym- 
pathy with  one  or  the  other.  There  were  other  gam- 
blers to  provide  them  with  excitement.  Mormon's 
challenge  of  Russell  was  a  sporting  event  that  appealed 
to  them  more  directly  and  there  were  many  possessed 
of  a  rough  chivalry  that  appreciated  the  heavyweight 
cowman's  taking  up  the  cudgels  on  behalf  of  a  wo- 
man. But  that  was  sport,  this  was  a  business  matter, 
a  duel,  with  Death  offering  services  as  referee. 

Chairs  edged  back,  the  standing  moved  for  a  better 
view-point,  the  room  focussed  on  Plimsoll,  Wyatt  and 
the  three  cow-chums.  Then  Wyatt  stepped  aside. 
There  was  a  malicious  little  grin  on  his  face.  Mor- 
mon's suggestion  as  to  his  private  grudge  against 
Plimsoll  was  not  without  foundation.  Wyatt  had  been 
glad  to  find  excuse  for  severing  relations  with  the 
gambler.  He  had  done  his  best  and  failed,  but  his 
failure  was  not  bitter. 


206  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

The  partners  walked  between  the  tables  toward 
Plimsoll  who  sat  regarding  them  balefully,  his  teeth 
just  showing  between  his  parted  lips,  cards  in  midair, 
action  in  a  paralysis  that  was  caused  by  the  concentra- 
tion forced  by  Sandy's  even  gaze,  by  the  same  sicken- 
ing conviction  that  his  manhood  shriveled  in  front  of 
Sandy  and  that  Sandy  knew  it.  Oaths  against  Wyatt 
rose  automatically  in  his  brain  like  bubbles  in  a  min- 
eral spring,  together  with  the  consciousness  that 
Wyatt,  if  not  allied  against  him,  was  no  longer  for 
him,  that  his  chosen  tools  lacked  edge.  The  placing  of 
bets  ceased,  there  was  no  sound  of  clicking  chips,  the 
roulette  dealer  held  the  wheel,  expectant,  dealer  and 
case-keeper  at  the  faro  bank  halted  their  manipula- 
tions, the  presiding  genius  of  the  craps  layout  picked 
up  the  dice.  Tragedy  hovered,  the  shadow  of  its  wing 
was  on  the  dirt  floor  of  the  rude  Temple  of  Chance. 

"The  chaps  you  sent  up  to  move  yore  tent  an'  truck 
didn't  make  a  good  job  of  it,  Plimsoll,"  drawled 
Sandy.  "I  reckon  they  warn't  the  right  so't  of  help. 
Ef  you-all  are  aimin'  to  take  that  stuff  erlong  with 
you  I'd  recommend  you  'tend  to  it  yorese'f.  It's  get- 
tin'  erlong  to'ards  sun-up,  fast  as  a  clock  can  tick." 

Silence  held.  Sandy  stood  non-committal,  at  ease. 
His  conversation  with  Plimsoll  might  have  been  of 
the  friendliest  nature  gauged  by  his  attitude.  His 
hands  were  on  his  hips.  Back  of  him,  slightly  turning 
toward  the  crowd,  were  Mormon  and  Sam,  smilingly 
surveying  the  room.  But  not  one  there  but  knew  that, 
faster  than  the  ticking  of  a  clock,  guns  might  gleam 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  207 

and  spurt  fire  and  lead  in  case  of  trouble.  It  was  all 
being  done  ethically  enough.  They  did  not  know- 
exactly  what  the  entrance  of  Wyatt  meant,  but  Sandy's 
talk  gave  them  a  hint  and  his  poise  was  correct,  with- 
out swagger,  without  intent  to  start  general  ruction. 
It  was  up  to  Plimsoll. 

"I'll  attend  to  my  own  business  in  my  own  way," 
said  the  gambler,  knowing  the  room  weighed  every 
word.  It  was  a  non-committal  statement  and  a  light 
one,  but  it  passed  the  situation  for  the  moment.  His 
eyes  shifted  to  Wyatt,  shining  with  hate,  the  whites 
blood-flecked  by  suppressed  passion. 

Sandy  pulled  out  a  gunmetal  watch. 

"I  make  it  half  afteh  one.  'Bout  three  hours  to  sun- 
rise, Plimsoll.  I'll  be  round  later."  He  turned  his  back 
on  the  gambler  and  sauntered  toward  the  door.  Before 
the  general  restraint  broke  Mormon  put  up  his  hand. 

"I  figger  Roarin'  Russell  ain't  in  the  room,"  he 
said.  "Ef  he  happens  erlong,  some  of  you  might  tell 
him  I  was  lookin'  fo'  him.  An'  I'm  goin'  to  keep  on 
lookin',"  he  added. 

There  was  a  laugh  that  swelled  into  a  roar  of  ap- 
proval in  the  general  reaction. 

"Good  for  you!"  A  dozen  phrases  of  commenda- 
tion chimed  and  jangled.  A  few  followed  the  three 
out  into  the  street,  among  them,  Wyatt. 

"I  got  a  hunch  it  ain't  extry  healthy  fo'  me  in  there," 
he  said.  "A  gamblin'  parlor  where  I  ain't  welcome 
to  stay  or  play  makes  no  hit  with  me.  I'll  help  you- 
all  find  Russell." 


208  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

The  search  was  not  an  easy  one.  Russell  had  been 
seen  freely  in  the  makeshift  saloons  and  other  places 
on  both  sides  of  the  street.  It  seemed,  from  what 
they  could  glean  and  put  together,  that  he  had  stopped 
drinking  when  he  had  arrived  at  a  certain  point  in  his 
boasting  and  had  announced  his  intention  of  sobering 
up  before  he  "took  the  bloody,  hog-bellied  cowpuncher 
apart,  providin'  the  latter  showed."  This  suited  Mor- 
mon, who  wanted  fairty  to  whip  a  live  opponent,  not 
fight  a  staggering  drunkard.  But  they  could  not  find 
him.  They  had  several  volunteer  assistants  who 
proved  useless.  Sam  began  to  yawn. 

"I  ain't  sleepy,  I'm  hungry,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  get 
us  a  steak  oveh  to  Simpson's.  If  he's  gone  to  bed  we'll 
rout  him  out.  Won't  be  the  first  time  he  turned  out  to 
cook  me  a  meal.  A  shot  of  that  Rocky  Mountain 
grapejuice  w'udn't  go  so  bad.  Mormon,  a  feed  'ud 
round  you  out.  Roarin'  Russell  has  crawled  in  some- 
wheres  an'  died  of  heart  failure.  Come  on,  hombres." 

Simpson  was  awake  and  dressed  and  on  the  job. 
His  place  was  almost  as  well  filled  as  it  had  been  the 
first  time  they  entered  it.  In  the  first  seethe  of  the 
gold  excitement  no  one  seemed  to  get  sleepy,  while 
appetites  developed.  Word  had  preceded  them  that 
Mormon  Peters  was  looking  for  Roaring  Russell  and 
their  entrance  caused  more  than  a  ripple  of  interest. 
Simpson  came  bustling  forward  to  serve  them. 

"Good  thick  rare  steak's  what  you  want,  ain't  it? 
Fine  fightin'  food.  Me,  I'm  takin'  in  a  few  bets  on 
you,  Mormon.  'Member  the  time  you  got  a  hammer- 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  209 

lock  on  that  long-horned  gent  from  Texas  with  the 
Lazy  Z  outfit?  I  cleaned  up  on  you  that  time  an' 
this'll  be  a  repeater.  This  same  Roarin'  Russell  has 
been  tellin'  the  camp  what  a  rip-snortin',  limb-loosenin', 
strong-armed  galoot  he  is,  an'  some  of  'em  have  swal- 
lered  it.  They  ain't  seen  you  in  action,  Mormon,  an'  I 
have.  You'll  jest  natcherly  chaw  him  inter  hash.  I'm 
bettin'  there  won't  be  enough  of  him  left  to  stuff  a 
Chili  pepper  after  you  git  through." 

"I  ain't  as  limber  as  I  was,  Alf,"  said  Mormon 
deprecatingly.  "Make  my  steak  thick,  will  you  ?  Have 
you  seen  anything  of  the  Roarin'  gent?" 

"Not  personal.  He  don't  eat  here.  There  was  a 
friend  of  yores  in  a  while  ago  who  seemed  to  be  sort 
of  keepin'  tabs  on  him.  That  young  assayer  Russell 
started  to  bulldoze  when  Sandy  took  a  hand.  Said 
he'd  be  in  ag'in  later.  'Feared  to  think  you  was  bound 
to  show  before  mornin'." 

Simpson  went  to  the  back  of  his  shack  and  started 
the  steaks.  A  waiter  brought  over  drinks  of  the  Rocky 
Mountain  grape  juice  with  the  information  that  they 
were  "on  the  house." 

"It  ain't  the  hooch  we're  sellin',"  he  said.  "This  is 
private  stock,  hundred  proof."  He  eyed  Mormon  pro- 
fessionally as  he  hung  about  the  table,  setting  out  the 
battered  cutlery  and  tin  plates  that  Simpson  provided. 
"They  was  offerin'  two  to  one  on  Roarin'  Russell  a 
little  while  ago,"  he  volunteered.  "I  think  I'll  take 
up  a  piece  of  their  money." 

"This  ain't  a  prize-fight,  it's  a  privut  quarrel,"  said 


210  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Mormon  as  he  smelled  the  fiery  stuff  in  the  glass, 
sipped  it  and  then  swallowed  it  in  one  gulp.  "That's 
prime  stuff." 

"You'll  have  one  hell  of  a  time  keepin*  it  privut, 
mister,"  said  the  waiter.  "They  tell  me  there's  nigh 
to  six  hundred  folks  in  the  camp  an*  there  won't  be 
many  more'n  six  missin'  when  you  two  meet  up.  You 
want  to  watch  out  for  Russell's  pals,  though;  they 
ain't  the  gentlest  bunch  in  the  herd.  But  I  reckon  you 
can  handle  'em,"  he  said,  turning  to  Sandy.  "I  saw 
you  handlin'  your  hardware  this  mornin'  an*  you  sure 
can  juggle  a  gun." 

A  call  from  another  of  the  makeshift  tables  claimed 
his  attention.  Simpson  came  hurrying  with  the  meat, 
biscuits  and  coffee.  He  sat  down  with  them,  offer- 
ing more  drinks  which  they  refused. 

"Slack  right  now,"  he  said,  "but  I  sure  have  done  a 
whale  of  a  business  to-day.  If  this  keeps  up  I  don't 
want  no  claims.  They're  tellin'  me  you  give  Plimsoll 
till  sun-up  to  git  out  of  camp,  Sandy.  I  don't  figger 
there'll  be  any  argyment.  He's  yeller  as  the  yolk  of  a 
rotten  aig.  Hell  w'udn't  take  him  in,  he  ain't  fit  to 
be  fried.  Gittin'  rid  of  him  an'  his  crowd'll  sure 
purify  the  air  in  this  camp.  Times  ain't  like  they 
used  to  be.  This  ain't  the  frontier  any  more  and  a  few 
bad  men  can't  run  a  strike  to  suit  themselves.  If  the 
camp's  no  good  it'll  peter  out  like  it  did  afore;  if  it 
amounts  to  anything,  we'll  have  a  police  station  on  one 
end  of  this  street,  a  fire  station  at  t'other  an'  street- 
cars runnin'  down  the  middle,  inside  of  a  month. 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  211 

Plimsoll's  gettin'  a  bum  name  in  this  county.  The 
wimmin  are  ag'in'  him.  An'  I  tell  you,  gents,  we 
hombres  '11  have  to  watch  our  steps  or  they'll  be  takin' 
our  vote  away  from  us  next  thing  you  know.  It's  a 
lucky  thing  for  us  that  men  is  in  the  majority  in  this 
section.  Here's  yore  friend  now." 

Westlake  came  through  the  door,  looked  round,  saw 
them  and  came  over. 

"Russell  is  down  at  the  Chinaman's  eating  shack  by 
the  bridge,"  he  announced.  "He's  been  drinking  black 
coffee  to  sober  up  on.  He's  got  some  of  his  own  sort 
with  him.  I  think  they're  nearly  ready  to  come  up- 
street.  He  knows  you  are  in  camp  and  looking  for 
him." 

"Then  we'd  better  be  shackin'  erlong,"  said  Mor- 
mon, mopping  up  gravy  with  half  a  biscuit.  "I 
w'udn't  want  to  keep  him  waitin'." 

Outside,  it  was  apparent  that  the  whole  camp  was 
waiting  for  the  appearance  of  the  two  principals  in  an 
event  that  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  be  dealt  with 
purely  as  a  personal  encounter.  The  waiter's  estimate 
was  a  fair  one.  The  moon  had  risen,  sailing  round 
and  fair  and  mild  of  beam  from  behind  the  eastern 
hills,  making  pallid  by  comparison  the  artificial  flares. 
The  one  street  was  packed  with  men,  not  all  of  whom 
were  sober.  The  crowd  thickened  every  moment  from 
outlets  of  the  gambling  shacks  and  saloons.  All  other 
business  and  pleasure  was  forgotten  with  the  swift 
word  passing  to  say  that  the  cowman  who  had 
slapped  the  bully  in  the  face  and  challenged  him  that 


212  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

morning  to  a  catch-as-catch-can,  free-for-all  contest, 
was  now  in  Alf  Simpson's  Chuck  House  while  his 
opponent,  in  the  cold  range  of  enforced,  semi-sobriety, 
was  in  Su  Sing's  Hashery,  the  pair  about  to  emerge. 

This  was  to  be  better  than  any  gunplay,  a  gladia- 
torial combat  to  delight  the  hearts  of  frontiersmen. 
And  they  warmed  to  it.  All  day  there  had  been 
rumors  busy  of  the  clash,  of  the  matters  involved. 
Garbled  versions  of  the  truth  ran  excitement  up  to 
hot-blood  heat.  The  town  had  stayed  up  for  develop- 
ments. Bets  had  been  made  on  Plimsoll's  backing 
down  at  sunrise;  on  the  cowman.  Mormon;  on  the 
bully,  Russell. 

The  affair  with  Plimsoll  at  sun-up  was  likely  to  be 
short  and  sharp.  Men  who  knew  the  three  from  the 
Three  Star  Ranch  spread  their  opinions.  The  prime 
event  was  the  scrap.  Russell  was,  or  had  been,  a 
professional  wrestler  and  held  fame  as  a  rough-and- 
tumble  fighter.  Mormon  had  once  beaten  all  comers 
for  the  Cow  Belt.  The  spectators  swarmed  like  bees 
and  buzzed  as  busily.  They  came  in  from  the  claims, 
warned  by  their  friends.  They  greeted  Mormon  with 
a  shout  and  one  bulk  of  them  surged  down  toward 
the  bridge  over  Flivver  Creek,  escorting  the  three 
partners  and  Westlake,  Simpson  and  his  help  with 
them.  More  were  milling  up-street  from  Su  Sing's 
place,  Russell  in  their  midst.  Where  the  two  factions 
met,  the  principals  kept  apart  by  the  crowd,  a  broad- 
shouldered  giant  with  the  voice  of  a  bull  and  a  beard 
that  crimped  low  on  his  chest,  harangued  the  multitude 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  213 

from  a  wagon-box.  They  halted  to  listen,  like  a  crowd 
at  a  fair. 

"Gents  all,"  bellowed  the  big  man.  "There's  been 
some  tall  talkin'  done  to-day  between  two  hombres 
who  have  agreed  to  see  which  is  the  best  man,  in  man 
fashion,  usin'  the  strength  an'  skill  that  God  gave  'em, 
without  recourse  to  gun,  knife  or  slungshot.  Roarin' 
Russell,  champeen  wrastler,  allows  he  can  lick  any 
man  in  camp.  Mormon  Peters,  champeen  holder  of 
the  Cow  Belt,  'lows  he  can't.  That's  the  cause  an' 
reason  of  the  combat.  Any  other  reason  that  has  been 
mentioned  is  private  between  the  two  principals  an' 
none  of  our  damned  business." 

The  crowd  roared  in  approval  of  the  speaker's  style 
and  the  force  of  his  breezy  delivery.  He  had  touched 
their  chivalry  in  thus  delicately  alluding  to  the  episode 
of  the  insult  and  apology  to  the  only  woman  in  camp. 

"Therefore,"  he  went  on,  and  the  word  slipped 
round  that  he  was  Lem  Pardee,  wealthy  rancher  and 
ex-representative  of  the  state,  "such  an  affair  appeal- 
in'  to  every  red-blooded  male  among  us,  it  behooves 
us  to  see  it  brought  off  in  due  form,  fair  an'  square  to 
both  parties,  in  a  bare-fisted  settlement — an'  may  the 
best  man  win." 

More  howls  went  up,  dying  as  he  held  up  his  hand. 

"There's  level  ground  below  the  bridge  with  free 
seats  an'  standin'  room  for  all  on  both  sides.  The 
moon  graces  the  occasion  an*  provides  the  proper  illu- 
mination. I  move  you  that  a  referee  be  appointed  to 
discuss  fightin'  rules  with  Roarin'  Russell  an*  Mor- 


214  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

mon  Peters,  to  settle  all  side  bets,  with  power  to  app'int 
a  committee  to  keep  the  side  lines  an'  take  up  a  suitable 
purse  for  the  winner.  Referee  will  give  the  decision, 
if  necessary,  an'  settle  all  disputes." 

Shouts  that  drowned  all  others  nominated  Pardee 
as  chief  official.  He  accepted  the  choice  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand  and,  glancing  about  him,  rapidly  picked 
five  men  as  his  committee.  Two  of  them  he  did  not 
know  by  name  but  selected  from  his  judgment  of  men, 
and  his  choices  met  with  general  approval. 

"The  principals  will  choose  their  own  seconds,"  he 
said.  "Not  more  than  three  to  each  man,  to  act  only 
in  that  capacity  and  in  no  way  to  interfere.  That's 
all." 

In  two  factions  the  crowd  moved  down  the  slant  of 
the  street,  turned  aside  at  the  bridge  and,  as  Pardee 
indicated  the  level  space  on  the  nigh  side  of  the  creek 
that  trickled  down  the  gulch  like  quicksilver  in  the 
moonlight,  ranged  themselves  about  the  natural  arena 
while  the  committee  established  the  side  lines  and  the 
referee  conferred  with  Mormon,  Russell  and  their 
seconds  in  the  open.  Sandy  and  Sam  appointed  them- 
selves corner  men  for  Mormon,  and  Sandy  asked 
Westlake  to  make  the  third.  A  roulette  dealer  from 
Plimsoll's  and  a  bartender  ranged  themselves  along- 
side Russell,  together  with  Plimsoll  himself.  Pardee 
eyed  the  group. 

"There's  bad  blood  between  you  two,"  he  said  to 
Plimsoll  and  Sandy.  "I  understand  you've  got  your 
own  grudges.  You'd  better  keep  clear  of  this.  And 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  215 

I'm  tellin'  you  both  this,"  he  added.  "This  camp  is 
in  the  rough-and-ready  stage,  but  there's  enough  of 
us  who've  got  together  to  see  it's  goin'  to  be  run  decent 
an'  regular.  We're  goin'  to  establish  fair  play  and 
order,  from  now  on.  We  don't  expect  to  run  no  man's 
affairs  so  long's  they  don't  interfere  with  the  general 
welfare  of  the  camp,  but,  if  there's  any  dirty  work 
pulled  off,  the  man  that  spills  the  dirt  is  goin'  to  be 
interviewed  pronto.  Things  are  goin'  to  be  run  clean. 
We  ain't  goin'  to  give  this  camp  a  bad  name  at  the 
start." 

"Suits  me,"  said  Sandy.  "My  blood's  runnin'  cool 
enough,  Pardee." 

"I'm  not  talkin'  personal,  'cept  so  far  as  this  bout 
is  concerned.  You  two  had  better  stay  out  of  it." 

Sandy  stepped  back  and  Plimsoll,  after  a  few  whis- 
pered words  to  Russell,  followed  suit. 

"You  men  want  another  second  apiece?"  asked  Par- 
dee.  "Or  are  two  enough?" 

"The  Roarin'  gent,"  said  Mormon,  "made  his  brags 
an'  I  took  it  up.  Me,  I  don't  know  nothin'  about 
Queensbury  rules  an',  though  the  camp  seems  to  have 
arranged  this  affair  to  suit  itself,  I  didn't  bargain  for 
no  boxin'  match,  nor  no  wrastlin'  match  either.  It's 
either  he  can  lick  me,  man  to  man,  or  I  lick  him.  An' 
a  lickin'  don't  mean  puttin'  down  shoulders  on  a  mat. 
If  a  man  goes  down,  t'other  lets  him  git  up,  if  he  can. 
Bar  kickin',  bitin',  gougin'  an'  dirty  work,  an*  to  hell 
with  yore  seconds  an'  yore  rounds.  This  ain't  no 
exhibition.  It's  a  fight!" 


216  R1MROCK  TRAIL 

He  spoke  loudly  enough  for  most  of  the  crowd  to 
hear,  and  they  cheered  him  till  the  hills  echoed. 
"That  suit  you,  Russell?"  asked  Pardee  sharply. 
Russell,  stripping  to  the  waist,  belting  himself,  stood 
forward. 

"Suits  me,"  he  said.  "Suit  me  better  to  cut  out  all 
this  talk  an'  get  this  over  with.  It  won't  take  long." 
He  was  a  formidable-looking  adversary.  In  the 
moonlight  certain  signs  of  puf finess,  of  dissipation,  did 
not  show,  save  for  rolls  of  fat  about  shoulders  and 
paunch.  He  was  powerfully  built,  his  chest  matted 
with  black  hair,  his  forearms  rough  with  it.  Taller 
than  Mormon,  he  had  all  the  advantage  of  reach.  He 
sneered  openly  at  his  opponent. 

"One  thing  more,"  said  Mormon.  "We  ain't  fight- 
in*  fo'  a  purse.  Roarin'  knows  what  we're  fightin'  fo'. 
A  private  matter.  But  we'll  put  up  a  stake,  if  he's 
agreeable.  Loser  leaves  the  camp." 

"When  he's  able  to  walk.  You  slapped  my  face  this 
morning.  This  evens  it." 

Russell  lashed  out  suddenly,  his  hand  open,  striking 
with  the  heel  of  his  palm  for  Mormon's  jaw.  Mor- 
mon sprang  back,  warding  off,  but  it  was  Pardee  who 
struck  aside  Russell's  blow  and  sent  him  reeling  back 
with  a  powerful  shove. 

"Strip  down,"  he  said  to  Mormon.  "Both  of  you 
keep  back  of  your  lines  till  I  give  the  word.  Sabe?" 
He  scored  two  lines  in  the  dirt  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe 
and  waved  them  behind  the  marks. 

"No  rounds  to  this  affairs,"  he  called  to  the  crowd. 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  217 

"Fair  fightin',  foul  holds  and  punches  barred.  Erery- 
thing*  else  goes.  Man  down  allowed  ten  seconds. 
That's  my  ruling,"  he  added  to  the  two  men. 

Mormon  looked  clumsy  as  a  bear  as  he  waited  for 
the  word.  He  was  far  stouter  than  Russell.  His 
bald  pate,  with  its  reddish  fringe  of  hair,  looked 
grotesque  under  the  moon.  The  bulge  of  his  stomach 
seemed  a  strong  handicap  in  agility  and  wind.  Yet 
his  flesh  was  hard  and,  where  the  tan  ended  on  neck 
and  forearms,  it  held  a  glisten  that  caused  the  knowing 
ones  to  nod  approvingly.  There  was  strength  in  his 
back,  big  muscles  shifted  on  his  shoulders  and  his 
arms  were  bigger  than  Russell's,  if  shorter,  corded 
with  pack  of  sinew  and  muscle.  As  he  toed  his  line, 
swaying  from  side  to  side,  arms  apart,  the  left  a  little 
forward,  he  moved  with  a  lightness  strange  to  his  usual 
tread.  Russell  crouched  a  little,  his  long  arms  hang- 
ing low,  knees  bent.  The  two  lines  were  about  six 
feet  apart. 

They  faced  each  other  in  a  silence  of  held  breath 
on  all  sides.  Pardee  stood  to  one  side,  equally  between 
them.  His  arm  went  up. 

"Ready?"  he  asked.    "Let  her  go!" 

A  great  sigh  went  up  as  the  two  fighters  leaped 
forward.  Both  seemed  about  to  clinch,  to  test  their 
prowess  as  wrestlers.  Murmurs  went  up  from  back 
of  Mormon  where  his  fanciers  had  ranged  themselves. 
"Russell's  got  too  many  tricks  for  him,"  men  told  each 
other  and  then  gasped. 

Mormon  had  landed,  light  as  a  dancing  master. 


2i8  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

despite  his  bulk,  had  stooped,  turned  in  a  flash  with 
his  right  hand  clamped  about  the  right  wrist  of  Rus- 
sell, bowing  his  back,  heaving  with  all  his  might. 

Russell,  shifting  at  the  last  second  from  a  clutch, 
seeing  Mormon  charging,  swung  a  vicious  uppercut. 
He  made  the  mistake  of  underestimating  Mormon, 
thinking  him  slow-witted.  He  found  his  wrist  in  a 
vise,  his  arm  twisted,  bent  down  across  the  thick  ridge 
of  the  cowman's  shoulder,  the  powerful  heave  of  Mor- 
mon's back.  His  own  impetus  served  against  him. 
Mormon  shifted  grips,  he  cupped  Russell's  elbow  with 
his  right  palm  and  crowded  all  his  energy  into  one 
dynamic  effort  of  pull  and  hoist.  Russell  went  over 
his  head  in  a  Flying  Mare  as  the  crowd  stood  up  and 
yelled. 

Surprised  off  his  feet,  Russell's  experience  served 
him  in  good  stead  as  they  left  the  ground.  Mormon's 
trick  had  scored,  but  it  was  an  old  one  and  had  its 
counter-move.  As  he  landed,  legs  flexed,  he  twisted, 
grabbed  Mormon's  arm  with  his  free  one  and  jerked 
him  forward,  hunching  a  shoulder  under  the  cowman's 
stomach.  The  pair  of  them  rolled  together  on  the 
ground,  struggling  and  clubbing,  while  the  spectators 
shouted  themselves  hoarse  and  smote  each  other  great 
blows.  Pardee,  stepping  warily,  watched  the  writhing 
pair. 

Russell,  wiser  at  this  game,  contrived  leverage, 
twisting  Mormon,  and  pinned  his  arms  in  a  scissors 
grip  while  he  battered  at  his  face  and  Mormon  writhed 
to  get  away  from  the  reach  of  those  long  arms.  The 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  219 

soft  dust  clouded  about  them  and  their  grunts  came  out 
from  it  as  they  struggled.  Once,  with  Mormon  striv- 
ing to  open  the  leg  grip,  jerking  away  from  the  flail- 
ing blows,  they  rolled  perilously  near  a  clump  of 
prickly  pear  on  the  verge  of  their  little  arena  and  a 
universal  cry  of  warning  went  up. 

The  two  heard  nothing  of  it  in  their  hammer  and 
tongs  affair,  the  superheated  blood,  stoked  by  passion, 
surging  through  their  veins. 

Mormon  felt  the  pressure  of  Russell's  thigh-muscles 
closing  relentlessly,  clamping  down  on  his  chest,  shut- 
ting off  oxygen.  His  energy  waned,  his  limbs  grew 
heavy,  nerveless,  his  brain  clogged  and  dulled.  He 
set  his  chin  well  down  into  his  neck  to  save  his  jaw, 
but  his  right  cheek  was  pounded,  one  eye  closing.  It 
was  only  a  matter  of  moments  before  he  must  relax 
and  then  Russell  would  pin  him  down  with  one  arm 
and  send  in  the  final  smashing  blow.  He  felt  him- 
self suffocating,  sinking — the  noise  of  roaring  waters 
dinned  in  his  ears. 

He  lay  on  his  back,  Russell  on  his  side,  one  leg 
below,  one  leg  above  Mormon's  body,  bending  at  the 
hips  in  his  efforts  to  reach  the  cowman's  jaw.  He 
bent  a  fraction  too  much,  the  scissors  grip  shifted  im- 
perceptibly and  the  message  of  that  weakening  of  the 
chain  flashed  to  Mormon's  hazy  brain.  With  every 
muscle  taut  in  one  supreme  convulsion  he  managed  to 
twist  sidewise,  back  to  Russell,  opening  the  grip  that 
now  compressed  shoulders  instead  of  chest  and  back. 
He  got  a  breath  of  air,  dust-laden  but  blessed.  His 


220  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

chest  expanded,  strength  flowed  in,  he  forced  his  arms 
apart,  rolling  over  on  Russell,  crushing  him  into  the 
soft  earth  with  his  weight.  Another  wriggling  twist 
and  he  faced  his  man,  bringing  his  mighty  back  into 
play  to  break  clear.  He  got  a  forearm  across  Russell's 
Adam's  apple,  regardless  of  the  blows  that  smashed 
into  his  face.  He  hammered  home  one  jolt  hard  to 
the  jaw  and,  as  Russell's  body  grew  limp,  dragged 
himself  from  the  relaxing  hold  and  crouched  on  hands 
and  knees,  wheezing,  spent,  gulping  air  to  his  flattened 
lower  lungs  that  refused  to  function. 

Now  he  could  hear  the  shouting  of  the  crowd,  a 
clatter  of  yells.  He  saw  Russell's  head  move,  his 
eyes  opening  in  the  moonlight.  Mechanically  Mor- 
mon stood  up,  swaying,  bruised,  one  eye  useless. 
Pardee  began  counting  over  Russell,  according  to  the 
ruling  he  had  made. 

Russell  rolled  over  on  his  face.  It  looked  as  if  he 
was  not  going  to  try  to  get  up.  This  was  not  how 
Mormon  had  wanted  the  fight  to  end,  in  a  technical 
knockout,  with  his  man  beginning  to  come  back  and 
he  not  allowed  to  finish  him. 

Pardee  had  put  in  the  clause,  "Man  down  allowed 
ten  seconds,  with  the  other  on  his  feet,"  merely  to 
make  a  better,  longer  fight  of  it  from  the  spectator's 
standpoint.  It  was  supposed  to  be  the  sporting  thing 
to  do,  but  Mormon,  blood-flushed,  brain-dull,  had  no 
thought  of  ethics  at  that  moment.  Russell  was  lifting 
himself  to  knees  and  elbows,  crouching  as  Mormon 
had  done,  watching  his  opponent,  listening  to  the 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  221 

count.  He  was  going  to  get  up.  He  was  up  at  nine, 
stooping,  groggy,  his  long  arms  hanging  low,  and  a 
shout  went  up  from  his  backers  as  Pardee  stepped 
aside. 

Russell  began  to  back  away,  to  describe  a  half-circle, 
right  forearm  across  his  chest,  left  arm  extended,  both 
in  slight  motion.  Mormon  stood  like  a  baited  bear, 
slowly  revolving  to  face  Russell,  wary  of  a  feint  to 
draw  him  out.  There  were  smears  of  blood  on  Rus- 
sell's arms,  on  his  face,  dark  in  the  moonlight.  Mor- 
mon's whiter  skin  showed  greater  defacement.  There 
was  a  mouse  swelling  above  his  eye,  the  lids  were 
clamping. 

The  ring  of  spectators  was  almost  silent  now,  lean- 
ing forward,  watching.  Little  jerky  sentences  passed 
between  them. 

"Russell's  goin'  to  box."  "He  can  beat  the  cowman 
at  that  game."  "Cut  him  to  ribbons.  Blind  him 
first." 

The  man  in  the  crowd  was  right.  Mormon  knew 
little  of  boxing,  but  he  knew  enough  to  throw  a  cush- 
ion of  sturdy  arm  across  his  jaw,  the  left  elbow 
crooked,  nose  buried  in  it,  eyes — one  eye — indomitable 
above  it.  And  the  blunted  elbow  like  a  ram,  as  he 
ducked  and  Russell's  straight  right  slid  over  his  bald 
pate.  He  was  far  faster,  lighter  on  his  feet  than  Rus- 
sell dreamed.  The  bully  still  underestimated  his  man, 
but  woke  to  vivid  and  just  appraisal  as  Mormon's 
elbow  smashed  against  his  collar-bone,  left  forearm 
clubbing  his  nose,  starting  spurts  of  blood,  right  fist 


222  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

coming  up  like  a  piston  in  short-armed,  jolting  upper- 
cuts. 

Desperately  Russell  clutched,  failed;  held,  clung, 
half  tumbling  into  a  clinch.  Mormon's  arms  were 
about  him,  underneath,  binding  him  with  hoops  of 
steel,  compressing.  He  lost  his  footing,  began  to  rise 
and  he  back-heeled  in  an  outside  click.  They  both  went 
down  together  side  by  side  in  a  dog-fall.  Mormon 
loosed  his  arms  as  he  rolled  atop,  got  astride  of  Rus- 
sell, strove  to  gather  and  control  the  arms  that  thrashed 
and  smote. 

Something  jagged  crushed  against  Mormon's 
temple.  It  seemed  as  if  the  skull  split  open  and  a 
jagged,  red-hot  probe  searched  through  his  brain.  He 
threw  up  his  head  in  agony,  his  chin  exposed,  but 
instinct  still  awake  to  fling  out  both  hands,  catch  the 
oncoming  blow,  his  fingers  clamping  deep  about  the 
wrist  above  the  hand  that  held  the  rock — some  ore 
fragment  tossed  away  by  an  old-timer — that  Russell 
had  found  in  the  dirt,  and  used  in  unfair,  murderous 
intent. 

The  maddening  pain  of  first  impact  died  to  a  throb 
as  the  blood  poured  down,  seeming  to  leave  his  brain 
clear,  cold  with  a  rage  that  responded  to  a  deep  disgust 
of  the  bully  who  was  now  at  his  mercy.  For,  with  the 
rage  came  absolute  conviction  that  this  was  the  end  of 
the  fight. 

He  screwed  unmercifully,  flesh  and  sinews  and  the 
small  bones  of  the  wrist,  until  Russell  shrieked  through 
his  swollen  mouth  at  the  anguish  of  it  and  dropped  the 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL:  223 

rock.  Pardee,  hovering  near,  seeing  all,  picked  it  up 
and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  as  Mormon  pinned  down 
Russell's  arm  with  his  left  knee  and  swung  left  and 
right  in  sledge-hammer  blows  to  the  jaw  of  the  face 
that  tried  in  vain  to  dodge  the  knockout.  As  if  a  gal- 
vanic current  that  had  simulated  life  had  suddenly  been 
shut  off,  Roaring  Russell's  body  lost  all  energy,  it 
seemed  to  flatten,  lay  without  a  quiver. 

Mormon  got  on  his  feet  and  stood  to  one  side  while 
Pardee  counted  off  the  seconds  that  were  only  a  grim 
parody.  Russell's  brain  was  short-circuited.  There 
was  not  even  a  tremor  of  his  eyelids.  Pardee  knelt, 
felt  pulse  and  heart.  Then  he  beckoned  to  the  loser's 
seconds. 

"Come  and  get  your  man,"  he  told  them.  "He's 
through  for  this  evening." 

Pandemonium  broke  loose  as  the  crowd  broke 
formation  and  surged  down.  Four  men  packed  off 
Roaring  Russell,  limp  and  sagging  between  them. 
Pardee  exhibited  the  chunk  of  ore,  stained  with  Mor- 
mon's blood,  while  Sandy,  Sam  and  Westlake  ram- 
parted Mormon  from  enthusiastic  admirers  and  pushed 
down  to  the  creek  where  he  washed  his  hurts  with  the 
stinging  icy  water  and  stiffly  put  on  his  clothes. 

"Knew  he  was  licked  and  figured  he  might  get 
away  with  it,"  declared  Pardee.  "Lucky  it  didn't 
split  his  head  open."  Murmurs  gathered  force  against 
the  bully's  methods. 

"Cut  out  the  lynching  talk,  boys,"  cried  Pardee. 
"The  man's  been  beaten  up.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  his 


224  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

jaw  was  bu'sted.  His  nose  is.  Let  him  go;  we'll  see 
that  he  leaves  the  camp  as  soon  as  he  can  hobble." 
He  broke  through  to  Mormon,  being  assisted  into  his 
coat  by  Sandy.  "How  are  you  standing  up,  old  bear- 
cat ?"  asked  the  referee.  "I  thought  he  had  you  nipped 
once  but  you  walloped  him." 

"Me?  I'm  jest  about  standin'  up,  an*  that's  all," 
said  Mormon,  gingerly  feeling  certain  places  on  his 
face.  "I  sure  thought  it  was  my  brains  oozin'  when 
he  swiped  me  with  that  rock.  But  my  bone's  pritty 
solid  in  the  head,  I  reckon.  I  don't  mind  tellin'  you-all 
I'm  feelin'  a  good  deal  like  a  bass  drum  at  the  end  of 
a  long  parade,  but  I  believe  it's  all  on  the  outside.  And 
I  ain't  entered  for  any  beauty  show — at  present." 

"Eleven  minutes  of  straight  fighting  by  the  watch," 
said  a  man. 

Mormon  looked  at  him  humorously,  and  one-eyed. 

"Seemed  mo'  like  'leven  hours  to  me."  He  caught 
sight  of  Simpson,  holding  out  a  flask.  "Now  that's 
what  I  call  a  friend,"  he  started,  his  hand  outstretched. 
Then  it  dropped  and  a  blank  look  came  over  his  face. 

"Let's  git  out  of  this,"  he  murmured  to  Sandy. 
"Dem  me  if  I  didn't  plumb  forgit  about  any  chance 
of  her  showin'  up." 

"Here's  where  you  git  called  a  hero,"  said  Sam. 
"She  knows  what  you've  been  fightin'  erbout.  More'n 
that  she's  been  in  the  crowd  for  the  last  five  minnits 
of  the  scrap.  That  right,  Westlake  ?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  her  come  into  the  crowd  with  young 
Ed.  She  wants  to  thank  you,  Mormon.  No  use 
dodging  it." 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  225 

Yeung  Ed  was  maneuverin'  through  to  their  side. 

"Aunt  wants  to  see  you/'  he  announced  with  a  grin. 
"We  heard  the  row  down  here,  an'  she  sent  me  to  see 
what  it  was.  When  I  didn't  hurry  back  she  trailed 
me.  Great  snakes,  Mormon,  but  you  sure  whaled 
him!" 

"Huh!"  Mormon  said  nothing  but  that  mystic 
monosyllable  until  they  reached  the  place  where  Mi- 
randa Bailey  stood  apart  from  the  crowd  who  defer- 
entially gave  her  room,  whispering  her  supposed  share 
in  the  recent  event.  She  did  not  look  much  like  the 
heroine  of  a  romance,  neither  did  Mormon  resemble 
a  hero.  Her  somewhat  worn  but  wholesome  face  was 
set  in  forbidding  lines,  but  Westlake  and  Sandy 
fancied  they  saw  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 
She  greeted  Mormon  as  if  he  had  been  a  disgraced 
schoolboy. 

"What  have  you  been  fightin'  about?"  she 
demanded. 

But,  like  Russell,  she  underestimated  Mormon.  His 
one  working  eye  was  innocent  of  all  guile  as  he  looked 
at  her. 

"Fightin'  fo'  ?    Jest  fo'  the  fun  of  it,  marm." 

She  surveyed  him  grimly  and  then  her  features 
softened. 

"I  reckon  yo're  too  tough  to  get  hurt  much,"  she 
said.  "I  can  fix  up  that  eye.  I  sh'ud  think  a  man  of 
yore  age  'ud  have  more  sense  than  fightin'  at  all  in 
front  of  a  crowd  of  hoodlums  who  ought  to  be  asleep, 
'stead  of  disturbin'  the  whole  camp,  let  alone  for  sech 
a  ridicklus  reason." 


226  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I  didn't  think  the  reason  ridicklus,"  said  Mormon, 
and  the  spinster's  lips  twitched. 

"What  he  wants  is  a  lancin'  an'  a  chunk  of  raw 
beef,"  put  in  Simpson,  with  a  sympathetic  wink  at 
Mormon  that  suggested  more  pungent  remedies  in  the 
background.  "Come  up  to  my  place." 

There  may  have  been  some  thought  of  trade  from 
the  many  who  would  want  to  see  the  victor  at  close 
range.  Mormon  hesitated,  all  slowly  moving  toward 
the  bridge.  Men  were  staring  toward  the  mesa 
whence  came  a  high-powered  car,  rushing  at  high 
speed,  magnificently  driven,  taking  curve  and  pitch 
and  level  with  superb  judgment.  Its  lights  flamed  out 
on  the  night.  It  turned  and  came  on,  stopping  on 
the  bridge,  blocked  by  the  crowd  that  made  slow  open- 
ing for  it.  The  driver,  in  chauffeur's  livery,  sat  im- 
mobile, controlling  the  car,  his  worldly-wise,  blase  face 
like  a  mask.  Two  men  were  in  the  tonneau.  One  of 
them  leaned  forward,  looking  at  the  crowd,  a  square- 
jawed  man,  clean-shaven  but  for  the  bristle  of  a  silver 
mustache  beneath  an  aggressive  nose,  above  a  firm 
hard  mouth  and  determined  chin.  The  mintage  of  the 
East  was  stamped  upon  his  features.  He  was  a  man 
accustomed  to  sway,  if  not  to  lead.  His  companion 
was  as  plainly  as  eastern  product,  but  his  manner  was 
subordinate  though  his  face  that,  alone  of  the  three, 
seemed  to  hold  a  measure  of  fearful  wonder  at  the  tur- 
bulent throng  of  men,  was  shrewd  enough. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  man  named  Plimsoll,"  said  the 
first  of  these  two,  his  voice  an  indication  that  he  was 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  227 

accustomed  to  a  quick  answer.  "He  wired  me  about 
some  claims.  Where'll  I  find  him?"  He  made  no 
question  concerning-  the  crowd,  his  eyes  passed  cas- 
ually over  Mormon's  damaged  countenance,  over  the 
procession  that  bore  Russell,  sack-fashion.  Here  was 
a  man  who,  at  any  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  was  primed 
for  business  and  for  profit. 

Yet  he  could  not  fail  but  see  that  his  question 
charged  the  crowd  with  some  emotion  he  could  not 
fathom.  The  night  was  spent,  it  was  getting  close  to 
dawn.  The  issue  between  Sandy  Bourke  and  Plimsoll, 
crowded  aside  for  the  moment,  was  now  paramount. 
Some  craned  for  sight  of  the  two-gun  man,  others 
glanced  toward  the  eastern  sky.  The  stars  seemed  to 
be  losing  their  brilliance,  the  golden  moon  turning 
silver,  the  high  horizon,  jagged  with  mountain  crests, 
appeared  to  be  gaining  form  and  a  third  dimension. 

"You'll  likely  find  him  at  his  place,"  answered  a 
miner.  "Up-street  on  the  left.  Name's  outside." 

They  let  the  car  go  on  in  a  lane  that  was  pressed  out 
of  their  ranks.  They  fell  in  behind  or  alongside  of 
it  as  it  passed  slowly  up  the  street.  One  or  two  of  the 
bolder  got  on  the  running  boards  unchecked.  The 
easterner  who  was  looking  for  Plimsoll  took  in  the 
situation  as  something  beyond  his  present  range,  ac- 
cepting it.  Sandy  turned  to  Mormon. 

"You  better  see  Miss  Mirandy  up  to  her  claim,"  he 
said,  his  voice  casual  enough.  Mormon  started  an 
appeal  but  it  died  unvoiced.  The  spinster  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  clash  impending  between  Sandy  and  the 


228  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

gambler,  neither  did  her  nephew,  who,  the  excitement 
of  the  fight  over,  yawned  and  went  off  with  his  aunt 
and  Mormon. 

"I'll  bring  you  up  that  chunk  of  meat,  Mormon," 
whispered  Sam.  "An*  I'll  bring  you  somethin' 
stronger,  same  time." 

"Don't  bring  it  all  on  yore  breath,"  Mormon  whis- 
pered back.  "If  I  hear  any  shootin'  I'll  come  back 
lopin'." 

"There  won't  be  any  shootin',"  said  Sam.  "You 
go  soak  that  eye  of  yores  in  Mirandy  Bailey's  sage 
tea.  Me  'n'  Sandy,  we'll  handle  Plimsoll."  Then 
Sam  broke  clear  from  Mormon  and  hurried  after 
Sandy  and  Westlake. 

Sandy  walked  up  the  street  without  hurry  and,  as 
they  had  made  way  from  the  car,  men  gave  him  space. 
The  nearer  he  got  to  Plimsoll's  place  the  more  room 
they  allowed  him.  They  melted  away  from  the  car 
on  all  sides,  leaving  it  clearest  between  the  machine 
and  the  entrance  to  the  gambling  shack.  The  chauf- 
feur preserved  his  bored  look  and  carved  attitude.  His 
face  was  lined  with  lack  of  sleep  and  the  strain  of 
driving  at  high  speed  over  unknown  mountain  roads, 
powdered  gray  with  dust.  He  seemed  almost  an  autom- 
aton. The  man  with  the  square  face  looked  alertly 
about  him  at  the  crowd,  giving  place  to  the  lean  tall 
man  walking  leisurely  up  the  street,  high  lights  touch- 
ing the  metal  of  the  two  guns  that  hung  in  holsters 
well  to  the  front  of  his  hips.  Sandy's  face  was  serene, 
but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  fact  that  the  star  per- 


A  FREE-FOR-ALL  229 

former  of  the  moment  had  come  upon  the  stage.  Five 
paces  back  of  him  strolled  Sam,  his  eyes  dancing  with 
the  excitement  that  did  not  show  in  Sandy's  steel-gray 
orbs.  Westlake  followed  to  one  side,  by  the  advice  of 
Sam. 

The  stranger  saw  that  Sandy  walked  lightly,  on  the 
balls  of  his  feet,  with  a  springy  tread.  He  appraised 
his  face,  frown-lines  appeared  between  his  eyebrows 
and  he  half  rose  in  his  seat.  Then  the  door  of  the  cabin 
opened  and  the  man  who  had  volunteered  to  find 
Plimsoll  emerged. 

"He's  comin'  right  along,"  he  announced. 

It  was  Plimsoll's  way — the  professional  gambler's 
way — to  play  his  cards  until  he  knew  himself  beaten. 
He  had  been  hoping  for  the  arrival  of  this  man.  He 
represented  capital,  the  development  of  the  camp  into 
a  mining  town,  the  movement  of  money,  the  boom  of 
quick  sales.  With  his  backing — once  the  camp  under- 
stood what  it  meant  to  all  of  them — he  might  turn  the 
tables  on  Sandy  Bourke.  The  protection  of  Capital 
was  powerful. 

He  came  out  licking  his  lips  nervously,  with  a  swift 
survey  that  took  in  the  setting  of  the  stage  prepared 
for  his  entrance.  His  eyes,  shifting  from  the  big- 
machine,  as  if  drawn  by  something  beyond  his  will, 
focused  on  the  figure  of  Sandy,  easy  but  sinister  in  its 
capacity  to  avoid  all  melodrama.  Half-way  between 
door  and  car  he  halted. 

"Plimsoll?"  said  the  stranger.    "I  am  Keith." 

The  light  was  perceptibly  changing.    Faces  of  men 


230  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

came  out  of  the  shadows,  pale  but  visible.  The  lights 
of  the  machine  changed  from  yellow  to  pale  lemon, 
the  flares  outside  the  cabins,  the  illumination  of  the 
windows  altered.  High  up,  a  tiny  fleck  of  cloud 
caught  the  fire  of  the  as  yet  unseen  sun,  rolling  on 
to  dawn  behind  the  range.  Things  seemed  flat,  lack- 
ing full  definition,  lacking  shadow.  In  the  east  the 
sky  showed  gray  behind  the  dark  purple  crests  be- 
tween which  mists  were  trailing.  Men  shivered,  half 
from  cold,  half  from  tension  and  lack  of  sleep. 

"Plimsoll,"  said  Sandy.  "That  peak  oveh  on  Saw- 
tooth Range  is  goin'  to  catch  the  light  first.  I'll  call 
it  sun-up  when  the  sun  looks  oveh  the  mesa." 

Plimsoll  bared  his  teeth  in  a  fox-grin.  Sandy  stood 
with  his  hands  by  his  sides,  covering  him  with  his 
eyes.  Plimsoll  looked  at  the  hands  that  he  knew 
could  move  swifter  than  he  could  follow,  he  looked 
at  the  car  with  Keith  gazing  from  him  to  Sandy,  he 
sensed  the  waiting  strain  of  all  the  men,  waiting  to 
see  Sandy  shoot — if  he  did  not  go,  to  see  him  crumple 
up  in  the  dust,  and — he  looked  at  the  peak  on  Saw- 
tooth and  his  face  grayed  as  the  granite  suddenly 
flushed  with  rose.  His  will  melted,  he  turned  and 
went  inside  his  cabin.  No  one  followed  him,  there 
was  no  one  inside  to  greet  him.  His  heart  was  filled 
with  helpless  rage,  centered  against  Sandy  Bourke. 
He  knew  the  camp  was  against  him,  considering  him 
outbluffed  or  outmatched.  His  horse,  ready  saddled, 
had  been  at  the  door  since  midnight.  He  mounted, 
dug  spurs  into  the  beast's  flanks  and  went  galloping 


A"  FREE-FOR-ALL  231 

madly  up  the  slope  that  rose  from  the  street  gulch 
leading  down  to  the  main  gulch  of  Flivver  Creek.  He 
was  shortcutting  for  the  mesa  road,  hate  in  his  heart, 
his  blood,  his  brain ;  poisoning-  hate  that  turned  all  his 
secretions  to  gall.  His  plans  for  wealth  had  been 
blocked  by  a  man  he  dared  not  face.  Before  Sandy 
Botirke  his  spirit  flinched  as  a  leaf  shrinks  and  curls 
from  flame.  The  forced  acknowledgment  of  it  was  an 
acid  aggravation.  He  raked  his  horse's  flanks  with 
his  rowels  and  the  spirited  brute,  pick  of  all  Plimsoll's 
horse  herd,  tore  up  the  hillside  to  suit  the  mad  humor 
of  his  master,  who  was  permeated  with  the  venom  of  a 
man  who  knows  his  deeds  at  once  evil  and  futile,  a 
venom  that  was  bound  to  spread  until  the  infection 
mastered  him,  body  and  mind  and  soul,  steeped  them 
in  a  devil's  brew  that  permitted  of  no  other  thought 
but  what  was  dominated  by  the  mad  desire  to  get  even. 
Some  one  caught  sight  of  the  galloping  horse  and 
rider  lunging  along  in  a  cloud  of  dust  that  showed 
golden  as  the  sun  rose  and  looked  over  the  mesa.  He 
raised  a  shout  that  was* joined  in  by  the  rest,  that 
reached  the  flying  Plimsoll  as  the  view-halloo  reaches 
the  fox  making  for  its  earth. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CASEY    TOWN 

THE  man  named  Keith  called  to  Sandy  Bourke 
who,  for  the  moment,  still  stood  alone,  now  roll- 
ing a  cigarette.  He  was  the  only  man  in  the  close 
vicinity  of  the  car  and  he  turned  at  the  sound  of  Keith's 
voice. 

"You-all  talkin'  to  me?"  he  inquired  mildly. 

"I  would  like  to  know,"  said  Keith  in  a  manner 
which  he  appeared  struggling  to  invest  with  humor, 
"exactly  what  is  the  idea  of  this  theatrical,  moving- 
picture  episode?" 

Sandy  smiled  back  at  him. 

"Look  like  film  stuff,  to  you?"  he  asked  in  his 
drawl.  "Surely  is  movin'  pictures  to  Plimsoll,  though 
it's  hell  on  the  hawss.  You  can  let  it  go  at  that,  if  you 
like.  LiT  western  drama  entitled  To  Be  Shot  at 
Sunrise" 

The  crowd  began  to  gather  closer,  curious  to  find 
out  the  reason  for  the  swift  advent  of  the  car,  the 
desire  to  see  Plimsoll. 

"You  were  ready  to  shoot  at  Plimsoll?" 

"I  was  ready.  I  didn't  figger  there  was  goin'  to  be 
much  shootinV 

"It  looks  to  me  as  if  you've  driven  the  man  out  of 

232 


CASEY  TOWN  233 

camp  and,  as  I've  come  all  the  way  from  New  York 
to  do  business  with  him,  driven  the  last  two  hundred 
miles  in  this  car,  I'd  be  obliged  if  you  would  tell  me 
just  what  was  the  matter,  Mr. ?" 

"Bourke.     Sandy  Bourke." 

The  stranger  had  managed  to  muffle  down  his 
chagrin  and  resentment  at  the  outcome  of  his  trip.  Of 
necessity  he  was  a  judge  of  men  and  it  did  not  take 
him  long  to  place  Sandy.  Keith  was  an  adept  at 
adapting  himself  to  his  environment. 

"Sorry  to  have  upset  things  fo'  you,"  went  on  Sandy, 
"but  this  was  a  personal  matteh  between  myse'f  an' 
Plimsoll  that  had  to  be  settled  pronto  an'  permanent. 
I  don't  reckon  how  you've  lost  a  heap,  said  Plimsoll 
bein'  a  crook." 

"My  name's  Keith,  Wilson  Keith,"  said  the  other. 
"I  don't  know  that  that  means  much  to  you  as  I  judge 
you  generally  belong  to  the  range  rather  than  the  min- 
ing camp,  but  there  may  be  a  few  in  the  crowd  who 
know  me.  I  am  a  mining  promoter.  Plimsoll  had 
agreed  to  sell  me  his  interest  in  certain  claims  which 
showed  well  in  assay  reports.  They  alone  were  insuf- 
ficient to  interest  me.  When  he  wired  me  the  news 
of  the  general  strike,  the  prospect  of  development 
opened  and  I  came  on.  You  seem  to  have  blocked  the 
deal.  However,  I  suppose  Plimsoll  can  be  located 
later.  Have  you  any  idea  where  he  might  be 
found?" 

"It  w'udn't  do  you  one  mite  of  good,"  said  Sandy. 
"Plimsoll  didn't  own  those  claims.  Didn't  have  an 


234  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

interest  in  'em.  Tried  to  jump  'em,  an'  did  the  jumpin' 
himse'f.  I've  got  an  idea  you  might  have  been 
through  here  some  time  back.  I  heard  some  eastern 
folk  had  been  samplin'  ore  an'  I  saw  some  signs  up  on 
the  Casey  claims.  Those  are  the  claims  Plimsoll  tried 
to  sell  you,  I  reckon,  for  cash,  figgerin'  on  the  deal 
goin'  through  quick.  He  'lowed  he'd  grubstaked 
Casey,  which  was  a  plumb  lie.  Casey  had  a  constitu- 
tional objection  about  bein'  grubstaked,  an'  he  had 
none  too  much  use  fo'  Plimsoll.  Plimsoll's  got  nothin' 
to  prove  his  end.  From  now  on  he  won't  try  to.  The 
claims  belong  to  Molly  Casey,  the  same  bein'  my  legal 
ward." 

"Ah!"  Wilson  Keith's  eyes  grew  keen  and  cold. 
"Have  you  any  interest  in  them  yourself,  Mr.  Bourke?" 

"Me  an'  my  two  partners  of  the  Three  Star  Ranch 
own  one-half  interest,  equal  with  Molly,"  said  Sandy 
easily.  His  eyes  matched  those  of  the  promoter  and 
held  them  for  a  second  or  two. 

The  thought  passed  through  Keith's  mind  that 
Sandy's  interest,  and  that  of  his  partners,  might  have 
been  obtained  from  the  girl  under  false  pretenses,  but 
he  was  very  far  from  a  fool  and,  among  the  things  he 
saw  in  Sandy's  eyes,  it  was  clearly  written  that  here 
was  a  man  who  was  both  absolutely  fearless  and  abso- 
lutely honest.  He  had  not  seen  many  such. 

"I'll  be  glad  to  talk  with  you  later,"  he  said.  "Just 
now  I'm  ravenous.  Any  place  to  eat?  And  does  the 
camp  get  up  early  or  just  go  to  bed  late?" 


CASEY  TOWN  235 

The  remark  raised  a  laugh  in  the  crowd,  now  mill- 
ing good-naturedly  about  the  machine. 

"Want  to  buy  any  more  claims  ?"  asked  a  voice. 

"I  might.  I've  looked  over  the  ground  once,  I  may 
as  well  admit,  and  I've  had  an  expert  report  upon  it. 
I'd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  all  of  you  after  I've  had 
some  coffee.  This  is  a  camp  where  it  will  take  a  great 
deal  of  money,  of  labor  and  of  time  to  develop  it, 
whether  you  try  to  drill  and  blast  yourselves,  or  pool 
your  interests  and  install  machinery.  Did  you  say 
which  was  the  best  place  to  eat,  Mr.  Bourke?" 

Sandy  recommended  Simpson's  and  pointed  it  out. 
Keith,  the  man  with  him,  his  secretary,  and  the  chauf- 
feur, got  out  and  walked  stiff-legged  to  their  coffee. 
The  crowd  once  more  had  sleep  discounted  by  excite- 
ment. Keith  had  shrewdly  said  just  enough.  The 
seed  that  he  had  planted  in  the  suggestion  that  they 
pool  interests  fell  in  such  rich  ground  that  it  began 
sprouting  immediately. 

Sandy  introduced  Sam  as  his  partner,  Westlake  as 
a  mining  engineer  and  assayer.  Keith  gave  Westlake  a 
shrewd  appraising  glance,  and  a  nod. 

"I'm  too  sleepy  myse'f  to  talk  business,"  said  Sandy. 
"My  two  pardners  are  in  the  same  boat.  So,  if  you- 
all  want  to  look  oveh  the  camp  ag'in,  Mr.  Keith,  an' 
talk  business  with  any  one  you  find  awake  an*  willin', 
I'll  prob'bly  see  you  befo'  nightfall.  You  know  where 
the  claims  are." 

Keith  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  door  of  Simpson's, 
looking  after  Sandy. 


236  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"A  fairly  slick  article,  the  man  with  the  two  guns, 
Blake,"  he  said  to  his  secretary.  "But  he's  straight." 

"And  mighty  hard  to  bend,"  added  Blake  with  a 
yawn. 

The  chauffeur  ate  apart,  devouring  enormous 
quantities  of  food  with  as  much  emotion  as  a  hopper 
taking  in  grain.  Keith  talked  matters  over  with  Blake, 
not  because  he  valued  his  secretary's  opinion,  able  as 
he  was  in  his  appointed  duties,  but  because  it  helped 
Keith  to  clarify  conditions  in  his  own  mind. 

"There  were  only  a  few  old-timers  in  the  crowd, 
Blake,"  he  said.  "The  rest  of  them  will  want  to  be 
going  back  to  wherever  and  whatever  they  came  from 
as  soon  as  they  find  this  is  not  a  placer  proposition. 
A  heap  of  people  heard  of  a  gold  rush  and  think  it's 
always  a  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground,  like  washing  out  the 
rich  sands  of  Nome.  They'll  be  glad  to  sell  and  take 
shares  for  cash." 

"Ought  to  change  the  name  of  the  camp,"  sug- 
gested Blake.  "Dynamite  is  known  as  an  exploded 
prospect." 

"Thought  of  that,"  said  Keith.  "This  is  damned 
good  coffee.  I'll  have  another  cup.  .  .  .  How  about 
Casey  Town,  after  the  original  discoverer  who  always 
believed  in  the  place,  but  lacked  the  money  for  devek 
opment  and  wouldn't  take  in  a  partner?  Picturesque 
and  good  stuff  for  the  prospectuses.  You  might  send 
off  some  stuff  about  that,  Blake,  work  in  this  Sandy 
Bourke  and  Plimsoll  affair  and  find  out  what  this  all- 
night  racket  was  about.  Good,  lively  publicity  stuff 


CASEY  TOWN  237 

we  can  use  again  later  on.  Romance  of  Casey's  daugh- 
ter. Wonder  where  she  is?" 

He  lapsed  into  silence,  swallowing  his  third  cup  of 
coffee  in  gulps.  Blake,  who  admired  his  employer's 
successes,  whatever  he  thought  of  his  methods,  did  not 
interrupt  him.  Keith  was  planning  a  campaign,  fig- 
uring out  the  best  bait  for  gulls. 

Sandy  and  his  companions  found  Mormon  asleep  on 
the  Bailey  claims.  Miranda  brewed  coffee,  and  they 
told  her  the  news  of  Plimsoll  and  the  arrival  of  Keith. 

"It's  too  bad  you  didn't  run  Plimsoll  out  of  the 
county,  or  the  state/'  remarked  the  spinster.  "He'll 
not  rest  until  he  does  you  some  sneakin'  injury,  soon 
as  he  figgers  out  what'll  do  you  the  most  harm." 

"An'  him  the  least  risk,"  remarked  Sam. 

"Since  the  excitement  is  temp'rarily  over,"  said 
Miranda  dryly,  looking  at  where  Mormon  snored 
beneath  blankets,  "I  reckon  we  better  all  foller  his 
example.  If  that  man  Keith  wants  to  buy  my  claims 
I'm  willin'  to  sell.  Milkin'  is  more  in  my  line  than 
minin',  I've  decided.  I  had  a  fool  idea  we'd  pick  up 
nuggets,  top  of  the  ground.  From  what  Mr.  West- 
lake  tells  me,  you  got  to  put  out  a  lot  of  money  before 
you  even  find  out  whether  you're  goin'  to  see  the  color 
of  gold." 

"Let's  hold  a  pow-wow  before  we  turn  in,"  said 
Sandy.  "Westlake,  what  do  you  know  about  Keith? 
Anything?" 

"I've  heard  of  him.  I  imagine  he  started  out  as  a 
promoter  rather  than  a  developer.  He  has  made  some 


238  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

lucky  strikes.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  he  can  float 
this  proposition  on  a  large  scale,  induce  others  to  put 
money  into  it.  The  least  likely-looking  properties 
he'll  put  on  the  market  and  tie  them  up  with  the  reports 
of  any  strikes  he,  or  others,  may  make.  He'll  put  the 
camp  on  a  working  basis.  If  the  gold's  here  that  will 
be  a  sound  one.  You  see,  Miss  Bailey,  not  every 
porphyry  dyke  is  going  to  have  a  gold  lining." 

"Do  you  figger  it  w'ud  pay  best  to  sell  him  outright 
or  let  him  form  a  company?"  asked  Sandy. 

"For  your  claims,  or  these  of  Miss  Bailey  and  her 
nephew  ?" 

"All  of  'em.  Didn't  you  say  they  were  all  on  the 
same  syncline?" 

"Yes.  You  really  want  to  go  by  my  opinion?  I 
am  not  too  experienced." 

"You  know  a  darn  sight  mo'  about  it  than  we  do. 
I'm  not  takin'  Keith's  opinion  on  anything  he  wants 
to  buy.  He's  tipped  his  hand  already  in  showin'  how 
far  an'  fast  he  came  here.  Probably  had  Plimsoll  tied 
up  on  an  option  or  he  w'udn't  have  said  's  much  as 
he  did." 

"Then — there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  Patrick 
Casey  picked  the  best  side  of  the  gulch.  The  indica- 
tions are  in  sight  there.  This  side  the  exposed  reef 
may  have  been  ground  down  below  the  sylvanite. 
There  are  glacial  signs  all  around  here.  I  would  say 
sell  these  for  cash,  holding  out  on  price  until  Keith 
refuses  to  offer  more.  He'll  come  back  for  a  final 
bid.  But  let  him  organize  with  your  claims." 


CASEY  TOWN  239 

"The  Molly  Casey  Mine?  With  fifty-one  per  cent, 
of  the  shares,  if  we  can't  get  more?" 

"He'll  squeal  like  a  pig  before  he  grants  that,"  said 
Westlake.  "But  he'll  have  to  come  through  to  your 
terms.  Those  claims  are  the  big  bet  of  this  camp,  and 
he  knows  it." 

It  would  have  surprised  Keith  had  he  known  how 
accurately  the  young  engineer  he  had  glanced  at  and 
dismissed  as  almost  an  amateur  at  the  game,  followed 
the  trend  of  his  scheming.  There  is  not  much  varia- 
tion in  the  methods  of  Mining  Promotion,  and  West- 
lake  was  an  observer  and  a  conserver  of  the  pith  of 
what  he  had  seen. 

"Fifty-one  per  cent.,  an'  the  name's  Molly  Casey, 
then,"  said  Sandy.  "What's  more,  you're  to  be  con- 
sulting engineer  or  whatever  they  call  the  fat  job, 
Westlake.  I'm  dawg-tired.  Sam,  let's  you  an'  me 
shack  over  to  our  claims.  We'll  leave  Mormon  where 
he  is  till  he  gits  his  sleep  out,  if  you've  no  objection, 
marm  ?" 

Sandy,  Sam  and  Mormon  returned  to  the  Three 
Star  with  the  papers  drawn  and  signed  and  the  shares 
of  stock  issued  that  gave  twenty-six  per  cent,  of  the 
Molly  property  to  her  and  twenty-five  to  the  three 
partners.  Keith  returned  to  New  York  with  his  forty- 
nine  per  cent,  to  weave  his  plans  for  the  full  develop- 
ment of  the  claims  he  had  acquired. 

While  he  lacked  the  controlling  interest,  there  was 
always,  he  fancied,  a  chance  of  division  between  the 


240  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

four  who  held  control.  Either  he  could  get  the  girl 
to  vote  apart  from  the  three  partners  or  he  might  split 
them  some  way  or  another.  But,  wisely,  he  did  not 
count  on  this.  And  he  took  up  the  task  of  exploitation 
with  zest,  Blake,  primed  with  material  and  notes  gath- 
ered on  the  spot,  a  ready  and  expert  assistant. 

When  Wilson  Keith  made  up  his  mind  there  was 
money  in  a  plan — money  for  Wilson  Keith — he  lost 
no  time  in  planning  and  carrying  out  all  details.  He 
loved  the  excitement  of  the  gamble,  he  loved  to  evolve 
some  play  for  which  he  could  pat  himself  upon  the 
back  and  tell  himself  how  much  cleverer  he  was  thai] 
the  public,  swimming  up  to  his  golden-baited  hooks 
like  so  many  fish.  Thornton,  expert  mining  engineer, 
believed  the  prospects  good  for  the  new  camp  at  Casey 
Town;  but  Keith,  with  Blake,  who  was  a  wizard  at 
publicity,  delighted  most  in  the  way  it  lent  itself  to 
exploitation. 

Blake,  nosing  here  and  listening  there,  while  Keith 
satisfied  himself  as  to  the  legality  of  Sandy's  guardian- 
ship of  Molly  and  the  powers  that  had  been  granted 
him  to  look  after  all  her  interests,  assuring  himself 
of  the  speciousness  of  Plimsoll's  claim  for  grubstake 
interest.  Blake,  weaving  fact  into  fiction,  compiled 
the  romance  of  Molly  Casey,  daughter  of  the  wander- 
ing prospector,  Patrick  Casey;  her  father's  trail-chum 
by  mountain  and  desert ;  the  death  of  Casey,  the  rescue 
of  Molly,  the  strike  at  Dynamite. 

Much  about  Sandy's  part  in  it  all  Blake  did  not  use. 
He  learned  little  and  said  nothing  of  Plimsoll's  attempt 


CASEY  TOWN  241 

to  get  the  girl  under  his  control,  of  the  wild  ride  across 
the  county  line.  Blake's  general  canniness  concen- 
trated wherever  his  personal  interests  were  concerned 
and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Sandy  Bourke  was 
a  man  whom  it  would  not  pay  to  offend.  He  might 
never  see  the  story  in  print,  then  again  he  might,  and 
Blake,  very  likely,  would  return  to  Casey  Town  once 
in  a  while  with  Keith. 

But  it  was  a  good  story.  A  Sunday  feature  story  if 
he  could  strengthen  it  a  little.  If  the  mine  made  the 
girl  a  millionairess  it  would  carry  the  yarn  as  sheer 
news,  but  Blake  wanted  the  story  to  help  to  carry  the 
mine,  to  bring  in  the  money  from  the  outside  to  exploit 
Casey  Town  and  the  Keith  holdings. 

Keith  had  the  capital  and  was  willing  enough  to  put 
it  into  developing  the  Molly  Mine  if  necessary,  but  it 
was  a  business  principle  of  his  never  to  use  his  own 
money  when  he  could  get  hold  of  some  one  else's.  His 
stock  in  the  Molly  Mine  he  meant  to  hold  on  to,  not  to 
sell,  but,  with  the  profits  from  the  sale  of  his  promot- 
er's shares  of  the  "Groups,"  he  expected  to  mine  the 
Molly  claims. 

He  had  turned  his  eyes  toward  oil  of  late,  scenting 
quick  turns  and  this  took  money.  His  wife  took  more, 
his  son,  just  out  of  college,  took  all  that  he  could  get. 
Mrs.  Keith  seemed  to  regard  her  husband's  bank- 
account  much  as  the  wife  of  a  farmer  might  regard 
the  spring  in  the  meadow.  With  the  extravagance 
of  the  post-war  period,  the  advance  in  prices,  the 
amounts  she  spent  were  staggering  even  to  Keith,  who 


242  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

set  no  limits  on  his  own  ability  to  make  money.  To 
suggest  retrenchment  would  not  merely  have  had  small 
effect  upon  his  wife,  but  any  curtailment  would  infal- 
libly hurt  the  standing  of  the  Keith  investments.  New 
York  was  full  of  people  with  money  to  invest.  Profit- 
eering, easy-come  money,  a  lot  of  it.  Easy-go  money, 
too,  when  the  profiteers,  still  dazzled  by  their  riches, 
totally  unconscious  of  real  values,  would  meet  Keith, 
thinking  their  money  an  open  sesame  to  equality  with 
such  financiers. 

Then  Keith  entertained  them,  taking  them  to  his 
clubs — not  his  best — to  his  home  where  he  dazzled 
them,  fogged  them  in  an  atmosphere  where  they  were 
ill  at  ease  though  striving  to  cover  it;  Keith,  drawing 
them  aside  when  the  time  was  ripe,  would  tell  them  of 
their  shrewdness,  confess  a  liking,  almost  an  admira- 
tion for  them — and  let  them  in  on  the  ground  floor. 

There  were  the  many  who  could  not  be  touched  per- 
sonally and,  for  these,  Blake  prepared  the  literature 
and  laid  his  schemes  for  real  newspaper  publicity. 
Submitting  them  to  Keith,  the  latter  approved.  Mrs. 
Keith  was  to  look  Molly  up  at  her  school,  take  her 
into  the  Keith  home  on  vacations,  introduce  her  into 
the  social  whirl.  The  right  newspapermen  would  see 
her,  meet  her,  get  the  story  from  Blake  of  her  romantic 
childhood,  with  photographs  of  the  Western  Heiress 
in  the  Park  on  Horseback.  There  would  be  drawings 
by  staff  artists  of  the  way  she  and  her  father  appeared 
wandering  through  the  desert,  discovering  the  claims, 
her  father's  grave,  anything  to  round  out  the  human 


CASEY  TOWN  243 

interest.     Moreover,  she  could  be  introduced  to  the 
right  people,  that  was  Mrs.  Keith's  end  of  it. 

Then  would  come  the  prospectuses  with  these 
extracts  of  the  best  paragraphs,  tied  up  with  views  of 
Casey  Town,  with  engineers'  reports,  with  semi- 
scientific  stuff  about  sylvanite,  a  masterpiece  of 
romance  and  fiction,  peppered  with  fact.  The  whole 
to  be  titled  White  Gold. 

Advertisements,  headed  White  Gold,  offering  the 
shares.  Personal  letters  to  those  on  the  carefully 
selected  lists  of  Preferred  Investors.  Offices  of  the 
Casey  Town  Mining  Company  with  alluring  specimens 
behind  glass  cases,  with  models  of  mining  machinery 
and  of  sections  of  mines,  framed  maps  and  drawings, 
blue-prints,  a  chunk  of  sylvanite  ore  in  a  railed-off 
enclosure  with  the  legend  of  its  marvelous  value. 
Many,  most,  of  these  lures,  had  done  service  in  previous 
enticements  of  Keith,  but  they  still  held  good.  They 
were  a  good  deal  like  the  fake  mermaids,  the  skulls 
and  odds  and  ends  in  the  window  of  a  palmist,  all 
bait,  of  better  quality,  more  deftly  arranged  and  dis- 
played, part  of  the  fakir's  kit,  bait  for  goldfish.  Also 
brass  rails,  fine  rugs,  mahogany  furniture,  a  ticker, 
busy  and  pretty  stenographers. 

Blake  submitted  his  clever  campaign,  worthy  of  bet- 
ter things,  and  Keith  approved  of  it.  That  the  part- 
ners of  the  Three  Star  as  fifty-one  per  cent,  owners, 
or  Molly  Casey  herself  with  them,  should  be  consulted 
or  informed,  never  entered  his  head. 

Of  course  there  was  always  a  chance  of  the  invest- 


244  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ors  realizing  heavily  if  Casey  Town  turned  up  big 
production.  Keith  hoped  it  would.  Provided  he  made 
all  the  money  he  wanted,  he  was  always  willing  to 
have  others  get  hold  of  some,  especially  when  he  would 
be  regarded  by  them  as  the  benefactor  who  had  given 
them  the  golden  opportunity.  He  would  reap  the 
major  harvest,  and  success  would  open  up  the  way  for 
other  fields — perhaps  in  oil.  Keith  had  some  asso- 
ciates who  rather  scoffed  at  his  gold-mining  promotion 
as  out-of-date.  Oil  was  quicker,  more  in  the  public  eye. 
Every  time  the  price  of  gasoline  or  kerosene  went  up 
the  American  automobile-owning  public  thought  of  oil, 
they  were  primed  perpetually  toward  its  possibilities. 

But  Keith  was  still  in  gold.  He  knew  all  the 
technique  of  that  branch  of  speculation  and  Blake's 
campaign  was  carried  out  most  successfully.  Mrs. 
Keith  descended  overwhelmingly  upon  Molly  at  her 
school,  chauffeur  and  footman  on  the  driving  seat  of 
her  luxurious  sedan ;  gasped  a  little  when  she  saw  that 
Molly  was  a  beauty,  could  be  made  an  unusual  one 
with  the  right  dressing,  the  right  setting. 

Her  brain,  which  was  keen  enough  in  business  mat- 
ters, told  her  that  she  could  improve  her  husband's  pro- 
gram of  using  Molly  as  an  attraction  to  bring  investors 
to  the  Keith  residence.  It  might  be  a  good  thing — 
Mrs.  Keith  was  quick  at  dealing  with  the  future — if 
her  son,  Donald,  fell  in  love  with  Molly,  the  heiress. 
She  wrote  to  the  Three  Star  Ranch,  to  Sandy  Bourke, 
guardian  of  Molly  Casey,  without  Molly's  knowledge. 
Sandy  read  the  letter  aloud  to  his  partners. 


CASEY  TOWN  245 

DEAR  MR.  BOURKE: 

I  feel  that  I  should  write  this  letter  to  you  although 
I  have  never  met  you,  rather  than  my  husband,  since 
the  question  is  one  that  a  woman  can  handle  better 
than  a  man, — that  only  a  woman  can  understand  and 
appreciate. 

I  have  seen  your  Molly  and  she  has  entirely  capti- 
vated me.  She  is  really  wonderful,  with  wonderful 
possibilities.  She  is  more  than  pretty,  she  is  talented 
and  she  possesses  character  in  a  marked  degree  that 
sets  her  aside  from  the  rest.  It  is  this  difference,  this 
broadness  of  view,  perhaps  a  certain  intolerance  of 
conventionality,  that  make  me  feel  that,  much  as  it  has 
done  for  her,  and  that  has  been  largely  due  to  her 
own  endeavors,  this  school,  or  any  school,  is  not  the 
place  for  her  best  development. 

I  want  to  take  her  into  my  home,  Mr.  Bourke.  She 
is  practically  a  woman  grown,  much  more  so  than  the 
girls  with  whom  she  associates.  This,  I  suppose,  is 
due  to  her  early  experiences.  There  she  would  be 
under  my  own  eye,  which  will  be  a  maternal  one,  and 
she  can  have  private  tutoring  in  what  she  still  lacks. 
I  think  she  feels  the  need  of  the  companionship  and 
advice  of  an  older  woman,  rather  than  that  of  the 
girls  at  the  school. 

I  wish  I  could  talk  with  you  personally  about  this. 
Letters  are  such  inadequate  things.  But  I  know,  from 
Mr.  Keith,  that  you  have  her  interests  at  heart — and 
so  have  I.  I  shall  dearly  love  to  have  her  with  me. 
I  have,  of  course,  said  absolutely  nothing  to  her  about 
this  plan  before  I  hear  from  you,  but  I  feel  confident 
from  what  I  have  seen  of  her,  that  she  will  be  happier 
in  a  home,  with  some  one,  who,  however  poorly,  may 
take  the  place  of  the  mother  she  must  have  missed  all 
these  years. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  soon.  If  my  health  and  other 
matters  permit,  I  must  try  to  come  out  with  Molly 


246  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

before  very  long-.     Mr.  Keith  has  seen  this  letter  and 
approves  of  my  suggestion  to  have  Molly  with  us. 
Most  sincerely  yours, 

ELIZABETH  VERNON  KEITH. 

It  was  a  clever  letter.  There  were  several  touches 
about  it  that  almost  amounted  to  genius.  The  hints 
of  Molly's  unhappiness  so  cleverly  suggested,  the 
mother  suggestion,  the  need  of  companionship  and 
advice  from  an  older  woman,  Molly's  intolerance  of 
conventionalities,  all  went  home;  though  it  was  some 
time  before  the  trio  entirely  absorbed  the  meaning  of 
the  glossy  phrases  and  glib  vocabulary.  The  letter 
passed  about  in  silence  after  Sandy  had  read  it,  Sam 
and  Mormon  plowing  through  the  maze  of  the  fash- 
ionable script. 

''Reckon  she's  right,"  said  Mormon.  "Molly's 
different.  She  had  a  mighty  hard  time  of  it  along 
with  her  old  man,  compared  to  what  them  soft-skinned 
snips  must  have  had.  Stands  to  reason  she  c'udn't  be 
like  'em,  any  mo'  than  Sam  c'ud  be  easy  in  his  spike- 
tail  suit,  or  me  handin'  ice-cream  at  a  swarry.  Not 
that  Molly  'ud  make  no  breaks,  but  their  ways  w'udn't 
be  her'n,  most  of  the  time.  How  'bout  it,  Sam?" 

"This  Mrs,  Keith  must  live  high,"  said  Sam.  "She 
w'udn't  be  botherin*  about  Molly  if  she  didn't  see  a 
heap  of  promise  in  her.  I  mind  me  it  must  be  tough 
to  be  herded  inter  a  corral  where  you  got  to  learn  all 
over  ag'in  how  to  handle  yore  feet  an'  hands,  not  to 
mention  forks.  This  Keith  woman's  spotted  Molly 
ain't  easy  at  school.  The  other  gals  like  her,  but  they 


CASEY  TOWN  247 

ain't  her  style.  She's  range  bred  an*  free.  Those 
other  fillies  have  been  brought  up  in  loose  boxes.  They 
probably  don't  mean  to  hurt  her  feelin's  none,  but  I 
'low  they  snicker  once  in  a  while  if  Molly  forgets  the 
right  sasshay.  An*  Molly's  proud  as  they  make  'em. 
Sounds  good  to  me.  What  you  think,  Sanely?  It's 
up  to  you  as  her  guardeen." 

"It  sure  sounds  good,"  said  Sandy.  "Seems  like 
this  Mrs.  Keith  must  be  a  pritty  fine  woman  to  think 
of  takin'  Molly  into  her  own  home.  I  reckon  Molly 
must  have  changed  a  good  deal.  I'd  be  inclined  to 
put  it  this  way;  if  Molly  cottons  to  the  idea,  let  her 
hop  to  it" 

"Mirandy  ain't  brought  over  the  butter  yet,"  put  in 
Mormon,  with  a  glance  at  his  partners  that  was  half 
shamefaced.  "Why  not  git  her  opinion?  Takes  a 
woman  to  understand  a  woman.  She'd  sabe  this  let- 
ter a  heap  bettern'  we  c'ud." 

Sam  winked  covertly  at  Sandy  and  shoved  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek. 

"That's  a  good  idea,  Mormon,"  said  Sandy. 

"Never  did  find  out  jest  what  happened  to  that  last 
wife  of  your'n,  did  ye,  Mormon?"  asked  Sam. 

"Never  did." 

"That's  too  bad.'* 

"Why?" 

"Gen'ral  principles."  Sam  said  no  more  but  took 
out  his  harmonica,  ever  in  one  hip  pocket,  and  crooned 
into  it.  A  jiggly-jazz  edition  of  Mendelssohn's  Wed- 
ding March  strained  through  the  curtains  of  Sam's 
drooping  mustache. 


248  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Speakin'  wide,  the  weddin'  cake  of  matrimony  has 
been  mostly  mildewed  for  me,"  said  Mormon  reflec- 
tively, "but  there  was  one  thing  about  my  last  wife  I 
sure  admired.  Uncommon  thing  in  woman  an'  missin' 


in  some  men." 


Sam,  eager  for  chaffing,  fell. 

"What  was  that,  Mormon  ?  I  heerd  she  was  a  good 
cook." 

"It  warn't  her  cookin',  though  that  was  prime  when 
she  was  in  the  humor.  But  she  sure  c'ud  attend  to 
her  own  business,  an'  there's  damn  few  can  do  that. 
Sandy's  one  of  the  few.  I  can't  call  another  to  mind 
jest  now." 

Sam  grinned. 

"You  sure  had  me  that  time,  ol'  hawss.  An'  the 
mildew  on  the  weddin'  cake  warn't  none  of  yore  fault. 
That  sort  of  pastry's  too  rich  for  me  to  tackle.  I  used 
to  wonder  why  they  allus  put  frostin'  on  weddin'  cake. 
I  reckon  it's  a  warnin' — or  else  sarcasm." 

"Ef  you  ever  git  roped  thataway,  Sam,  you're  goin' 
to  fall  high  an*  hard,"  said  Mormon.  "You'll  come  to 
consciousness  hawg-tied  an*  branded." 

"That  the  way  it  was  with  you?" 

"Yep.  I've  allus  had  an  affinity  fo'  the  sex.  I 
ain't  like  Sandy.  Nature  give  him  an  instinct  ag'in' 
'em,  as  pardners.  He  was  bo'n  lucky." 

But  Sandy  had  gone  out.  Sam  and  Mormon  trailed 
him  and  saw  him  walking  toward  the  cottonwood 
grove  with  Grit  at  his  heels. 

*He  thinks  a  heap  of  Molly,"  opined  Sam.     "I 


CASEY  TOWN  249 

reckon  he  sure  hates  to  lose  her,  if  he  is  woman-shy, 
'Course  Molly  was  jest  a  kid.  But  I  don't  fancy  she'll 
take  the  back-trail  once  she  gits  mixed  up  with  the 
Keith  outfit." 

"I  ain't  so  plumb  sure  of  that,"  returned  Mormon. 
"Molly's  bo'n  an'  bred  with  the  West  in  her  blood. 
She'll  allus  hear  the  call  of  the  range,  like  a  colt  that's 
stepped  wild.  He'll  drink  at  the  tank,  but  he  ain't 
forgettin'  the  water-hole." 

Sam  glanced  at  Mormon  curiously.  It  wasn't  often 
Mormon  showed  any  touch  of  what  Sam  characterized 
as  poetical. 

Sandy,  under  the  cottonwoods  where  the  spring 
bubbled,  so  near  the  old  prospector's  grave  that  per- 
haps the  old-miner  lying  there  could,  in  his  new  affini- 
ties with  Nature,  hear  its  flow,  was  thinking  much  the 
same  thing  Mormon  had  expressed,  hoping  it  might  be 
true,  chiding  himself  lest  the  thought  be  selfish. 

A  granite  block  stood  now  as  marker  for  Patrick 
Casey's  resting-place,  carved  with  the  words  that  Mor- 
mon had  chalked  on  the  wooden  headstone.  A  rail- 
ing outlined  the  grave,  and  the  turf  within  it  was  kept 
short  and  green.  Sandy  squatted  down  and  rolled  a 
cigarette,  smoking  it  as  he  sat  cross-legged.  Grit,  as 
was  his  custom,  leaped  the  railing  lightly  and  lay 
down  above  the  dust  of  his  dead  master,  head  couched 
on  paws,  turned  a  little  sidewise,  his  grave  eyes  sur- 
veying Sandy. 

"Miss  her,  ol'  son?  So  do  I.  Mebbe  she'll  come 
back  to  see  us-all.  She  sure  did  seem  to  belong." 


250  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Memories  of  Molly  flickered  across  the  screen  of 
his  mind:  Molly  beside  her  father  by  the  broken 
wagon,  climbing  to  get  the  cactus  blossom  for  his 
cairn ;  Molly  at  the  grave ;  Molly  giving  him  the  gold 
piece;  the  wild  ride  across  the  pass  and  the  race  for 
the  train  and  a  recollection  that  was  freshest  of  all,  one 
he  had  not  mentioned  to  his  partners;  the  touch  of 
Molly's  lips  on  his  as  he  had  bade  her  good-by.  The 
kiss  had  not  been  that  of  a  child,  there  had  been  a 
magic  in  it  that  had  thrilled  some  chord  in  Sandy  that 
still  responded  to  that  remembrance.  He  never  dwelt 
on  it  long,  it  brought  a  vague  reaction  always,  stirred 
that  strange  instinct  of  his  that  had  branded  him  as 
woman-shy,  kept  him  clean.  Part  of  it  was  intuitive 
desire  for  freedom  of  will  and  action,  as  the  wild  horse 
shies  at  even  the  shadow  of  a  halter  that  may  mean 
bondage,  however  pleasant.  Part  of  it  was  reverence 
for  woman,  deep-seated,  a  hazy,  never  analyzed  feel- 
ing that  this  belief  might  be  disappointed. 

Miranda,  alone  in  the  flivver,  a  new  car  of  her  own, 
bought  with  money  paid  by  Keith  for  her  claim,  was 
at  the  ranch-house  when  Sandy  returned.  Miranda 
and  young  Ed  Bailey,  accepting  Westlake's  advice, 
had  sold  for  cash,  getting  fifteen  thousand  dollars  to 
divide  between  them,  refusing  more  glittering  offers 
of  stock.  It  was  a  windfall  well  worth  their  endeavor 
and  they  were  amply  satisfied.  Young  Ed  had 
promptly  gone  to  Agricultural  College,  putting  in  part 
\>f  his  money  to  buy  new  stock  and  implements  for  his 
father's  ranch,  in  which  he  now  held  a  half  partner- 


CASEY  TOWN  251 

ship.    Miranda,  Mormon  and  Sam  were  talking  about 
this  when  Sandy  came  up. 

"It  sure  made  a  man  of  young  Ed  overnight/'  said 
the  spinster.  "He  thought  it  out  all  by  himse'f  an'  nigh 
surprised  us  off  our  feet.  He  was  sort  of  ganglin', 
more  ways  than  one,  an'  we  feared  the  money  'ud  go 
to  his  head.  Which  it  did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  it 
was  a  tonic,  'stead  of  actin'  like  an  intoxicant  We're 
plumb  proud  of  him. 

"Mr.  Westlake  was  over  day  before  yesterday,"  she 
went  on.  "Coin*  on  through  to  the  East  fo'  a  consul- 
tation with  Mr.  Keith  an'  his  crowd.  Said  to  say  he 
was  mighty  sorry  he  c'udn't  git  out  to  the  Three  Star, 
but  he  only  had  a  couple  of  hours  before  his  train.  He 
says  things  is  boomin'  up  to  Casey  Town.  There's 
been  some  good  strikes,  one  in  the  claim  nexj  but  one 
to  ours.  Keith's  goin'  to  start  things  whirlin',  I 
reckon." 

"Mebbe  hell  see  Molly,"  suggested  Sam.  "Though 
of  course  she  ain't  to  Keith's  house  yet." 

"How's  that  ?"  asked  the  spinster  eagerly. 

"We  are  waitin'  fo'  Sandy  to  show  you  the  letter," 
said  Sam. 

Miranda  read  the  letter  through  twice,  folded  it  and 
held  it  in  her  lap  for  a  few  moments. 

"Want  my  opinion  on  it  ?"  she  asked  finally. 

"Yes,"  said  Sandy.  "If  the  mines  are  goin'  to 
produce  big  she'll  likely  be  rich.  She  went  east  to 
git  culchured  up.  Seems  like  the  school  idea  might 
not  have  been  the  best,  after  all." 


252  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  rightly  git  the  motive  back 
of  this  writin'.  It  ain't  been  sent  without  one.  Mebbe 
she's  just  taken  a  fancy  to  Molly,  mebbe  she's  a 
woman  that  likes  to  do  kind  things  and  thinks  Molly'll 
pay  well  for  bein'  taken  up.  I  don't  mean  in  money 
but,  if  Molly  didn't  have  a  show  of  bein'  rich,  an' 
warn't  pritty,  which  she  is,  I  ain't  certain  Mrs.  Keith 
'ud  be  so  eager.  I  guess  it's  all  right  but,  somehow,  it 
don't  hit  me  as  plumb  sincere.  Still  ...  I  reckon  my 
opinion  is  like  that  gilt  hawss  top  of  Ed's  barn,"  she 
ended  with  a  smile.  "It  was  set  up  too  light,  I  reckon, 
an'  it  was  allus  shiftin',  north,  south,  east  an'  west, 
when  you  c'udn't  feel  a  breath  of  wind  on  the  level.  I 
ain't  got  a  thing  to  pin  it  to,  but  I  feel  there's  some- 
thing back  of  it,  like  a  person's  rheumatic  spot'll  ache 
when  rain's  comin'." 

"You'd  vote  ag'in'  it?"  asked  Sandy. 

"No-o.    I  w'udn't." 

"I  figgered  on  puttin'  it  up  to  Molly." 

"That's  a  good  idee.  An',  as  her  guardeen,  I'd 
suggest  that  Mrs.  Keith  lives  up  to  that  half-promise 
of  hers  an'  make  it  a  condition  she  brings  Molly  out 
here  inside  of  six  months.  That'll  give  time  for  a  fair 
trial  an'  you  can  see  right  then  fo'  yoreself  how  it's 
workin'.  Long's  she  goin'  to  have  teachers  she  can't 
lose  much." 

"That's  a  plumb  fine  idee,"  said  Mormon,  looking 
triumphantly  at  his  partners. 

It  ran  with  Sandy's  own  wishes  and  he  subscribed 
to  it.  Sam  endorsed  it  as  well,  and  a  letter  was  sent 


CASEY' TOWN  253 

east  that  night,  containing  the  proviso  of  Molly's 
return  and  another  that  Molly  should  bear  all  her  own 
expenses  of  tuition  and  living.  All  this  to  hang  upon 
Molly's  own  desire  to  make  the  change. 

When  Molly's  letter  came  there  appeared  no  doubt 
as  to  her  willingness.  She  admitted  that  she  had  been 
sometimes  "lonesome"  at  the  school.  One  page  was 
devoted  to  her  anticipations  of  coming  back  to  visit 
Three  Star: 

I  may  stay ;  there  are  lots  of  new  and  lovely  things 
here,  but  I  miss  the  mountains  and  the  range  terribly. 
Also  Grit.  Please  tell  him  I  have  not  forgotten  him. 
You  might  draw  cards  to  see  who  will  kiss  him  on 
the  end  of  the  nose — for  me.  It  is  a  very  nice  nose. 
High  man  out.  Lovingly,  MOLLY. 

P.  S.  There  are  three  other  people  I  miss  just  as 
much  as  I  do  Grit,  but,  being  quite  grown  up,  I  can 
not  send  them  the  same  message,  though  it  would  be 
awfully  funny  to  see  you  delivering  it  to  each  other. 
Maybe,  when  I  come,  I'll  be  so  glad  to  see  you,  I'll  do 
it  myself.  M. 

"I'll  kiss  no  dawg,"  declared  Sam.  "I  like  a  dawg 
first-rate,  like  I  do  a  hawss,  on'y  not  so  much,  but  I'm 
a  hell-singed  son  of  a  horned-toad  if  I'd  ever  kiss  one." 

"It's  two  to  one  you  don't  have  to,"  said  Mormon. 
"If  you're  a  sport  you'll  do  as  Molly  asks  an'  draw 
cards  fo'  the  privilege.  It's  a  sure-fire  cinch  she'll 
never  give  you  one  of  them  salutes  she  hints  at  when 
she  comes  home  ef  she  knows  you  backed  out.  Wait 
till  I  git  the  cards." 


254  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

It  was  plain  to  Sandy  that  Sam  and  Mormon,  despite 
Sam's  protest,  took  Molly's  pleasantry  in  earnest  and 
he  made  no  comment  as  Mormon  deftly  shuffled  the 
deck  and  riffled  it  out  over  the  table.  He  picked  a 
jack,  Mormon  a  three  of  clubs  and  Sam  an  eight  of 
hearts.  Sam  whooped  at  sight  of  Mormon's  card. 

"Hold  on,  Molly  said  'High  man  out.'  That's 
Sandy.  You  an'  me  got  to  draw  again.  Ain't  that 
so,  Sandy?" 

"Sure  is,"  said  Sandy  gravely.  "You  hollered  too 
soon,  Sam.  Prob'ly  crabbed  yore  luck." 

Both  chose  their  cards  and  drew  them  to  the  edge 
of  the  table,  face  down,  taking  a  peep  at  the  index 
corners. 

"Bet  you  ten  dollars  I  got  you  beat,"  said  Mormon 
cheerfully. 

Sam  turned  up  his  card  disgustedly.  It  was  the 
deuce  of  spades. 

"Oh,  hell!"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  I  got  to  kiss  a 
dawg!" 

At  his  voice  and  face  Mormon  and  Sandy  bent 
double  with  laughter  that  brought  water  to  their  eyes 
and  nearly  sent  Mormon  into  convulsions.  Sam  sur- 
veyed them  with  gloomy  contempt. 

"Laf,  you  couple  of  ring-tailed  snakes  in  the  sage!" 
he  said  bitterly.  "I'm  stuck  an'  I'm  game,  but  if  either 
of  you  ever  whisper  a  word  of  it  to  a  livin'  soul,  out- 
side of  Molly,  I'll  plumb  scalp,  skin  an'  silence  both  of 
you.  Kiss  a  dawg!  Hell's  delight!" 

They  started  to  follow  him,  still  weak  with  laughter, 


CASEY  TOWN  255 

but  he  threatened  them  with  his  gun  and  they  fell  back 
in  mock  alarm  while  Sam  went  round  back  of  the  cor- 
ral and  they  heard  him  whistling  for  Grit.  When  he 
reappeared,  straddling  along  on  his  bowed  legs,  his 
good  humor  had  returned. 

"How's  he  like  it?"  asked  Mormon. 

Sam  grinned  at  him. 

"You  bald-headed  ol'  badger,  you,  he  acted  plumb 
like  yore  wives  must  have,  when  I  salutes  him  on  the 
snoot.  Licks  my  nose  first  an'  then  curls  up  his  tongue 
an'  licks  off  his  own.  Wipes  out  all  trace  of  the  osky- 
lation  pronto  an'  thorough.  Most  unappreciative 
animile  I  ever  see." 

"I'll  tell  you  straight  out  that  none  of  my  wives 
ever  acted  that-away,"  started  Mormon,  and  the  laugh 
swung  at  his  expense. 

"I  didn't  mind  the  operation  so  much,"  Sam  con- 
fided to  them,  "when  I  figger  out  that  I  was  just 
handin'  it  on  fo'  Molly,  an'  that  she  owes  me  one, 
whether  she  decides  to  salute  you  two  galoots  or  not." 

Molly's  letters  were  prime  events  at  the  Three  Star. 
She  wrote  every  week  telling  of  life  at  the  Keiths'. 
Miranda  made  up  the  quartet  to  read  them.  Molly 
wrote : 

It  is  full  of  excitement,  this  life  at  the  Keiths',  and 
they  are  just  lovely  to  me.  There  is  a  lot  of  company 
always  at  the  house  and  every  one  seems  to  be  enjoy- 
ing himself,  but  somehow  it  strikes  me  as  not  quite 
real.  I  want  to  be  back  where  nobody  pretends. 

I  go  automobiling  a  good  deal,  with  Mrs.  Keith  and 


256  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

once  in  a  while  with  Donald,  but  I'd  give  anything, 
sometimes,  for  a  good  gallop  through  the  redtop  and 
sage  and  rabbit-brush  on  my  pony.  I  can  go  riding 
here,  but  it  is  in  the  Park  and  you  should  see  the 
saddle!  Imagine  a  real  saddle  with  the  cantle  taken 
away,  the  horn  gone,  the  pommel  trimmed  down  to 
almost  nothing,  no  skirts  to  it,  just  pared  to  the  core. 
And  the  poor  horse  bob-tailed  and  roach-maned, 
taught  to  go  along  with  its  knees  high,  like  a  trained 
horse  in  a  circus.  High-school  gaited,  they  call  it. 

a 

i  There  was  more  talk  of  dinners  and  dances,  of  recep- 
tions and  theaters,  with  mention  of  Donald  Keith  here 
and  there,  chat  of  new  clothes,  kind  words  for  the  elder 
Keiths.  "Don't  think  I've  changed,"  she  said.  "I'm 
the  same  Molly  underneath  even  if  I  have  been 
revamped  and  decorated." 

The  famous  White  Gold  prospectuses  and  advertise- 
ments duly  followed  the  news  stories.  Three  Star 
saw  no  copies  of  the  last,  nor,  it  seemed,  did  Molly. 
Neither  did  prospectuses  or  advertisements  come  their 
way,  for  that  matter.  Casey  Town  boomed  with  some 
bona-fide  strikes  that  sent  Keith's  stocks  soaring  high. 
The  porphyry  dyke  at  the  Molly  Mine  began  to  yield 
rich  results  almost  from  the  first  and  dividends  were 
paid  in  such  quantities  as  to  stagger  the  Three  Star 
outfit  who  saw  themselves  in  a  fair  way  to  become 
rich.  All  over  the  barren  hills,  where  the  first  futile 
shafts  had  been  driven  and  abandoned,  buildings 
sprang  up  like  mushrooms,  housing  machinery,  send- 
ing up  plumes  of  white  smoke  that  tokened  the  under- 
ground energies.  The  Keith  properties  were  being 


CASEY  TOWN  257 

developed  with  much  show  of  outlay,  prices  jumping 
at  every  report  from  the  Molly  Mine  or  other  success- 
ful developments.  None  of  the  investors  in  these 
Keith  undertakings  knew  that  he  owned  forty-nine  per 
cent,  of  the  shares  of  the  Molly  and  of  none  other, 
save  for  the  space  between  issuing  them  and  selling 
them. 

The  three  partners  held  consultation  as  to  their  dis- 
posal of  the  checks  that  were  sent  them. 

"Molly,  she's  gettin'  the  same  amount  we're  splittin' 
both  ways,"  said  Sam,  "but  somehow  it  don't  seem 
right  to  me  the  way  we  come  in.  It  was  her  dad's 
mine.  He  found  it.  All  we  did  was  to  find  her — an' 
Grit  done  that.  The  dawg  ought  to  have  a  gold  collar 
an'  we  might  accept  a  gold  plated  collar-button,  apiece, 
that's  the  way  it  sizes  up  to  me." 

"The  gal  w'udn't  promise  to  go  to  school  'less  we 
shared  even-Steven,"  said  Mormon. 

"She  didn't  know  how  much  money  she  c'ud  use 
then,"  demurred  Sam.  "Now  she's  bein'  shown  how 
to  spend  it.  It  ain't  that  she'd  kick,  but  some  might 
think  we'd  taken  advantage  of  her.  Darn  me  if  I  don't 
feel  thataway  myse'f." 

"I  see  it  this  way,"  said  Sandy.  "I've  done  a  heap 
of  thinkin'  over  the  matter.  I  don't  believe  that  Molly 
has  changed — still  she  might  be  influenced  by  folks 
who  w'ud  look  at  it  that  she  made  the  deal  when  she 
was  a  minor  an'  we  c'udn't  enfo'ce  it.  Bein'  her 
guardeen,  I'm  responsible  fo'  what  she  makes  an'  what 
she  loses.  Jim  Redding  fixed  up  things  in  that  line. 


258  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

He  an'  Ba'bara  Redding  understand  it  all  but  others 
mightn't.  I'm  plumb  sure  that  if  we-all  didn't  take  the 
money  Molly  'ud  pull  out  her  picket-pin  an'  say  we 
wasn't  playin'  fair  an'  square  with  her.  It  was  a  deal 
an',  at  the  time,  I  had  no  mo'  idee  the  mines  w'ud  pan 
out  than  I  have  that  Sam's  laigs'll  grow  straight.  I 
figger  we  can  do  this.  We  can  use  the  money,  keepin' 
account  of  it,  puttin'  it  into  stock  an'  improvements 
that'll  pay  fo*  themselves  long  befo'  Molly  comes  of 
age  an'  my  guardeen  papers  play  out.  That  way  we'll 
have  the  benefit  of  the  capital  an*  keep  it  ready  to 
turn  over  to  her  if  she  ever  needs  it.  I  don't  believe 
she'll  ever  take  one  red  of  it.  It  was  a  gamble  with 
her  an'  she's  a  thoroughbred  sport.  To  my  mind,  she'd 
sooner  be  slapped  in  the  face  by  us  than  have  us  "try 
an'  wiggle  out  of  the  deal.  But,  in  case  anything  ever 
turns  up,  or  she  gits  married,  we'll  have  it  handy." 

"Figger  she's  goin'  to  marry  that  young  Keith? 
She  writes  a  heap  of  Donald's  this  an'  Donald  doin' 
that.  I'd  like  to  take  a  slant  at  him.  I  sure  hate  to 
think  of  Molly  hitchin'  up  with  a  tenderfoot." 

"What  put  that  in  yore  head  ?"  Sam  asked  Mormon. 

"Mirandy  was  wonderin'  whether  Ma  Keith  'ud 
like  to  keep  Molly's  money  in  the  family.  Mirandy's 
allus  'spicioned  a  motive  to  that  invite." 

"Shucks!  She  asked  her  befo'  the  mine  made  a 
showin*.  An*  every  dollar  Molly  makes,  Keith  makes 
five  or  six,  out  of  the  sale  of  them  shares.  But  I  sub- 
scribe to  Sandy's  scheme  on  these  here  dividends  of 
ours." 


CASEY  TOWN  259 

"  'Count  me  in,"  said  Mormon.     And  so  the  affair 
was  settled. 

Of  Plimsoll  little  was  heard.  The  gambler  had 
deserted  that  now  unpopular  profession,  since  suffrage 
ruled,  and  stayed  close  to  his  horse  ranch.  It  lay  alone, 
and  few  visited  it  save  Plimsoll's  own  associates. 
Rumors  drifted  concerning  Plimsoll's  remarkable  herd 
increase  of  saleable  horses  but,  unless  proof  of  actual 
operation  was  forthcoming,  there  was  small  chance  of 
pinning  anything  down  in  the  way  of  illegal  work. 
There  was  always  the  excuse  of  having  rounded  up  a 
bunch  of  broom-tail  wild  horses  to  account  for  grow- 
ing numbers,  and,  if  he  stole  or  not,  Plimsoll  left  the 
horses  of  his  own  county  alone.  No  neighbor  was 
injured  and  though  stories  of  wild  happenings  at  the 
horse  ranch  were  current  it  was  considered  nobody's 
business.  Wyatt  once,  staggering  out  of  some  blind 
pig  in  Hereford,  still  existent  despite  the  suffrage 
sweeping,  babbled  in  maudlin  drunkenness  of  his  deter- 
mination to  get  even  with  Plimsoll  for  stealing  his 
sweetheart.  For  Wyatt,  for  the  sake  of  the  girl,  had 
gone  back  to  Plimsoll's  employ.  The  new  sheriff  took 
Wyatt's  guns  away  and  locked  him  up  overnight  in  the 
"cooler,"  letting  him  go  in  the  morning,  soberer  and 
more  silent. 

"But,"  said  the  sheriff  to  his  cronies,  "some  day 
there'll  be  one  grand  shoot-up  an'  carry-out  at  Plim- 
soll's. Wyatt's  sore  clean  through." 

"He  ain't  got  the  sand  in  his  craw  to  make  a  kill- 


260  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ing/'  said  one  of  the  listeners.  "Sandy  Bourke 
backed  him  off  the  map  to  Casey  Town." 

"Just  the  same,  he's  got  something  in  his  craw," 
replied  the  sheriff.  "He  may  not  shoot  Plimsoll,  but 
he's  primed  to  pull  something  off  first  chance  he  gets. 
I  spoke  to  him  about  what  he's  been  firing  off  from 
his  mouth  the  night  before  an'  he  shuts  up  like  a  clam. 
'I  was  foolish  drunk/  he  says,  but  there  was  a  look  in 
his  eyes  that  was  nasty.  If  Plim's  wise  he'll  get  rid  of 
Wyatt.  He  knows  vtoo  much  an'  he's  liable  to  tip  it 
off." 

"Wyatt  an'  Plim's  both  of  'em  side-s wipers,"  re- 
turned the  other.  "They'd  throw  dirt  but  not  lead. 
Plumb  yeller  as  a  Gila  monster's  belly.  Plimsoll  told 
it  all  over  the  county  he'd  tally  score  with  Sandy 
Bourke.  Has  he?  He  ain't  even  bought  him  a  stick 
of  chalk." 

"He  ain't  had  the  chance  he's  lookin'  for.  That's  all 
that's  holding  Plimsoll.  Same  way  with  Wyatt.  Two 
buzzards  of  a  feather,  they  are." 

Thoughts  of  Plimsoll  and  his  revenges  did  not 
bother  Sandy's  head.  The  "old  man"  of  the  Three 
Star— bearing  the  cowman's  inevitable  title  for  the 
head  of  the  management,  whether  young  or  old,  male 
or  female — carried  out  his  long  cherished  plans  for 
additional  water-supply,  for  alfalfa  planting,  for  regis- 
tered bulls  and  high-grade  cows.  Now  that  there  was 
money  in  sight  the  success  of  the  ranch  was  assured. 
He  studied  hard,  he  got  in  touch  with  the  state  experi- 
mental developments,  he  subscribed  for  magazines 


CASEY  TOWN  261 

that  told  of  cattle  breeding,  he  sent  soils  for  analysis 
and  young  Ed,  coming  home  from  his  first  term, 
found,  somewhat  to  his  chagrin,  that  Sandy  was  far 
ahead  of  him  in  both  the  theory  and  practise  of 
ranching. 

The  days  multiplied  into  weeks  and  the  weeks  into 
months.  Sandy  received  one  letter  from  Brandon  that 
seemed  to  presage  another  visit  across  the  line.  It 
was  terse,  characteristic  of  the  man. 

MY  DEAR  BOURKE: 

We  are  still  losing  three-  and  four-year-olds,  and  the 
evidence  points  plainly  to  their  drifting  over  toward 
Plimsoll.  We  have  traced  up  some  of  the  links  lead- 
ing from  this  end.  To  be  quite  frank,  the  authorities 
of  your  own  county  do  not  seem  over-disposed  to 
bother  in  the  matter,  and  we  are  taking  things  in  our 
own  hands.  We  have  set  a  trap  for  Jim  Plimsoll  and 
have  hopes  he  will  walk  into  it  if  he  is  the  guilty  party. 

If  it  springs  and  catches  him  you'll  probably  see  us 
over  your  way  again — after  we  have  concluded  our 
business  with  J.  P.  There  are  some  of  us  old-timers — 
and  I  believe  you  are  of  our  way  of  thinking  or  I 
would  not  write  asking  you  to  do  this  favor  for  me — 
who  look  at  horse-stealing  just  as  it  used  to  be  looked 
at — and  dealt  with.  To  be  plain,  we  have  been  losing 
a  lot  of  valuable  animals  and  we  are  all  considerably 
"riled." 

The  favor  I  want  of  you  is  to  tip  me  off  if  Plimsoll 

appears  about  to  leave  the  country.     We  have  had  a 

tip  that  he  expects  to  do  so  before  long.     If  you  get 

wind  of  this  a  wire  would  be  much  appreciated  by  me. 

Sincerely  yours, 

W.  J.  BRANDON. 


262  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Have  been  hearing  fine  things  about  the  way  things 
are  being  run  along  modern  lines  on  the  Three  Star. 
More  power  to  you.  Good  stock  always  pays. 

Sandy  filed  the  letter.  There  was  a  room  in  the 
ranch-house  that  was  now  fitted  up  as  an  office,  known 
to  the  riders  of  the  Three  Star  as  the  "Old  Man's 
Room."  Sandy  had  even  contemplated  a  typewriter, 
but  given  it  up  for  the  time  being  after  talking  it  over. 

"I  don't  believe  I  c'ud  ever  learn  to  ride  one  of 
those  contraptions,"  he  said.  "I  tried  it  once  an'  the 
wires  bucked  my  fingers  off  reg'lar.  But  I  sure  hate 
writin'  longhand." 

"Why  not  import  one  of  them  stenographers  ?"  sug- 
gested Mormon. 

"Sure,"  jeered  Sam.  "Why  not?  Then  you  c'ud 
put  in  yore  spare  moments  gentlin'  a  hawss  fo'  her  an' 
pickin'  wild  flowers,  until  Mirandy  Bailey  persuades 
her  the  climate  is  too  chilly.  But  I'll  bet  Molly  c'ud 
handle  that  end  of  it  prime,  if  she  was  back." 

"I  w'udn't  wonder,"  said  Sandy. 

There  was  a  lot  of  interjected  talk  about  what  Molly 
might  say  or  do.  With  the  founding  of  the  Three 
Star  Ranch  the  lives  of  the  partners  had  changed  a 
good  deal.  They  held  responsibilities,  they  owned  a 
home  and  they  lived  there.  None  of  them,  since  they 
were  children,  had  ever  known  the  close  companionship 
of  a  young  girl.  Mormon's  matrimonial  adventures 
had  been  foredoomed  shipwrecks  on  the  sands  of  time, 
his  wives  marital  pirates  preying  on  his  good  nature 
and  earnings.  Molly  had  leavened  their  existences  in 


CASEY  TOWN  263 

a  way  that  two  of  them  hardly  suspected  and  the  yeast 
of  affection  was  still  working.  Each  hung  to  the  hope 
that  she  might  return  to  the  ranch  again  to  stay  and 
each  felt  that  hope  was  a  faint  one. 

When,  at  last,  there  came  the  news,  from  Molly  her- 
self and  from  Mrs.  Keith,  that  Keith  was  coming  out 
to  make  inspection  of  his  Casey  Town  properties,  that 
he  was  traveling  in  a  private  car  with  his  son,  with 
Molly  and  her  governess-companion,  and  that  the  two 
latter  would  get  off  at  Hereford  for  a  visit  to  the 
Three  Star,  Sandy  went  about  with  a  whistle,  Sam 
breathed  sanguine  melodies  through  the  harmonica  and 
Mormon  beamed  all  over.  The  illumination  was  appar- 
ent. Sam  told  him  he  looked  "all  lit  up,  like  a  Chinee 
lantern"  and  Mormon  beamed  the  more. 

Molly's  letter  was  primed  with  delight.  Mrs.  Keith's 
contained  regrets  that  her  physicians  did  not  think  the 
journey  would  be  best  for  her  to  undertake  in  the 
present  state  of  her  health,  which  meant  that  she  feared 
possible  discomforts  en  route  and  imagined  the  ranch 
as  a  place  where  one  was  fed  only  on  beans,  sour- 
dough bread,  bull  meat  and  indifferent  coffee. 

"You  will  find  Miss  Nicholson  most  efficient  and 
amenable,"  she  penned.  "She  has  done  remarkably 
well  with  your  ward.  I  believe  my  husband  expects 
to  stay  in  your  vicinity  about  a  month  and  we  have 
decided  to  make  a  holiday  of  it  for  Molly,  so  far  as 
lessons  are  concerned.  She  can  resume  her  studies  on 
her  return  to  New  York.  I  regret  exceedingly  not 
being  able  to  make  your  personal  acquaintance.  But, 
if  ever' you  come  east,  we  shall  hope  to  see  something 
of  yoa" 


264  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Miranda  Bailey  sniffed  at  this  letter  openly. 

"I  hope  they  ain't  spiled  the  child,"  she  said.  "I 
wonder  what's  the  matter  with  the  Nicholson  teacher 
woman  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mormon. 

"She  says  she's  amenable.  I  ain't  sure  of  the  word, 
but  I  believe  that  means  thin-blooded  or  underfed. 
My  sister's  niece  by  marriage  was  that  way  till  they 
fed  her  cod-liver  oil  an'  scraped  beef.  'Pears  to  me 
as  if  all  the  companions  an'  governesses  was  that  kind 
of  folk.  I  suppose  they  hire  out  cheaper  account  of 
not  bein'  overstrong." 

"You  can  search  me,"  answered  Mormon.  "Ask 
Sandy,  he's  browsin'  through  the  dikshunary  reg'lar 
these  days.  Gettin'  so  it's  hard  to  sabe  half  he  tells 
you." 

Sandy  had  to  look  up  the  word.  "Liable  to  make 
answer,"  he  read  out. 

"One  of  the  snippy  kind,  back-talkin'  an*  peevish," 
said  Miranda.  "I  can't  bear  'em." 

"That's  the  legal  meaning,"  said  Sandy.  "I  reckon 
this  is  it — submissive." 

"Halter-broke.  That's  more  likely.  That's  the, kind 
that  Keith  party  w'ud  pick.  I  ain't  ever  seen  her  nor 
don't  hope  nor  expect  to,  but  that's  the  kind  she'd  pick. 
No  backbone.  Molly'll  twist  her  round  her  little  fin- 
ger. Wonder  how  old  she  is?" 

"The  word  you  meant  was  anemic,  Miss  Mirandy," 
said  Sandy,  turning  a  leaf  in  the  dictionary.  "They 
sound  about  the  same." 


CASEY  TOWN  265 

"There's  too  many  words  anyway,"  she  replied. 
"Folks  don't  use  mo'n  a  hundredth  part  of  'em  an* 
git  along  first-rate.  I  don't  see  why  they  print  'em." 
Miranda  did  not  show  to  the  best  advantage  during 
the  rest  of  her  visit.  She  snubbed  Mormon  severely 
when  he  offered  to  get  water  for  her  car.  "I've 
fetched  an*  carried  for  myself  long  enough  not  to  want 
to  be  waited  on/'  she  said.  "An'  I  don't  need  water 
anyway."  She  drove  off  and  had  to  bail  from  an 
irrigating  ditch  before  she  was  half-way  to  her  destina- 
tion. Whereupon  she  took  herself  to  task. 

"Miranda  Bailey,  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool," 
she  said  aloud,  with  sage-brush  and  timid  prairie  dogs 
for  audience.  "What  you  want  to  do  is  to  keep  sweet. 
Now  git  on."  The  final  adjuration  was  to  her  car,  to 
which  she  always  spoke  exactly  as  if  it  was  a  horse. 

"What  do  you  suppose  made  her  so  cantankerous?" 
Mormon  inquired  after  she  had  driven  round  the  cor- 
ral. "Reckon  you  got  her  sore  bawlin'  her  out  about 
usin'  the  wrong  word,  Sandy.  A  woman's  sensitive 
about  them  things." 

Sam  smote  Mormon  between  the  shoulders  before 
Sandy  could  make  answer. 

"Fo'  a  man  who's  had  yore  experience,  you're  deef, 
blind,  dumb  an'  lost  to  all  sense  of  touch  or  motion," 
he  shouted.  "Remember  what  I  said  about  the  sten- 
ographer? Mirandy's  jealous  of  the  Nicholson 
woman.  Plumb  jealous!  You  better  wear  blinders 
while  she's  here,  Mormon.  If  she's  a  good-looker, 
Gawd  help  you!  Mirandy  won't." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

EAST  AND  WEST 

T V  7HEN  Miranda  Bailey  heard  the  news  she  an- 
VV  nounced  her  determination  of  coming  over  to 
the  Three  Star  to  prepare  for  the  visitors. 

"I  reckon  my  reputation'll  stand  it,"  she  said,  "seem' 
I'm  older  than  two  of  you  an'  the  third  is  still  a  mar- 
ried man.  That  spineless  governess'll  be  writin'  back 
to  the  Keith  woman  about  everything  she  sees,  eats, 
sits  or  sleeps  on.  Pedro's  cookin'  is  enough  to  give 
any  easterner  dyspepsy.  The  whole  house  wants  red- 
din*  up,  it  ain't  been  swept  proper  fo*  a  year." 

Abashed,  the  partners  gave  her  full  sway.  They 
lived  on  the  porch  in  their  spare  waking  moments,  they 
ate  cold  victuals,  and  the  lives  of  Pedro  and  Joe  were 
made  miserable.  But  the  ranch-house  was  scoured 
from  top  to  bottom.  Miranda's  car  brought  over  cur- 
tains for  the  windows,  flowers  for  the  window-sills, 
odds  and  ends  that  made  the  place  look  homely,  cheer- 
ful, inviting.  Pedro  was  given  lessons  at  the  stove 
that  he  at  first  took  sulkily  but,  being  praised  and  his 
wages  raised,  took  pride  in. 

"He'll  do,"  vouchsafed  Miranda  at  last,  the  evening 
before  the  arrival.  "He's  no  hand  at  cookies  or  dough- 
nuts an'  never  will  be,  but  I'll  bring  them  over  from 

266 


EAST  AND  WEST  267 

time  to  time.  He  can  make  a  pie  an'  biscuit  an*  he 
can  broil  meat.  I've  taught  him  to  mash  his  pertaters 
with  milk  'stead  of  water  an'  to  put  butter  in  his  hot 
cakes.  I'm  stayin'  over  till  supper  ter-morrer  to  see 
everything  has  a  good  staht." 

"She's  stayin'  over  to  git  a  good  look  at  the  Nichol- 
son party,"  Sam  said  to  Mormon.  "All  this  ain't  jest 
for  Molly." 

"There's  nothin'  between  Miss  Mirandy  an'  my- 
se'f,"  replied  Mormon  with  dignity.  "She's  a  wonder- 
ful housekeeper." 

"She  sure  is.  Me,  I'm  so  I'm  afeard  to  come  into 
my  own  house,  it's  so  golderned  clean.  If  that  third 
wife  of  yor'n  ..." 

The  long-suffering  Mormon  turned  upon  his  part- 
ner. They  were  seated  on  the  broad  top  rail  of  the 
breaking  corral,  waiting  the  call  to  supper.  Mormon 
clutched  Sam  by  his  collar  and  jerked  him  off  the  rail, 
catching  the  slack  cloth  of  his  pants  at  the  seat,  hold- 
ing him  firmly  gripped  and  bending  him  across  his 
padded  lap.  Despite  Sam's  kicks  and  squirms,  he 
paddled  him  unmercifully  and  then  dropped  him 
sprawling  into  the  corral. 

"I  ain't  done  that  to  you,  Sam  Manning,"  he  said 
sternly,  "fo'  five-six  years.  An'  you've  got  too  all- 
fired  fresh.  Nex'  time  I'll  do  it  in  front  of  Mirandy, 
you  ornery,  bow-laiged,  hornin'-in  son  of  a  lizard." 

Sam  said  nothing.  His  face,  as  he  stooped  some- 
what painfully,  was  fiery  red.  He  took  hold  of  a  post 
to  help  himself  up,  pretending  disability.  On  the  post 


268  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

a  horsehair  lariat  hung  from  the  snub  of  a  lopped-off 
bough  of  the  tree  that  made  the  heavy  stake.  He 
fumbled  with  this  while  Mormon  shook  with  laughter 
like  a  great  jelly.  The  next  moment  the  lariat  came 
flying,  circling,  settled  down  over  Mormon's  head, 
over  his  body  and  arms.  Sam,  working  like  a  jump- 
ing-jack,  took  a  quick  turn,  flung  a  coil  about  Mor- 
mon's legs  and.  in  a  few  seconds,  had  him  trussed  help- 
lessly to  the  rail. 

"Paddle  me,  you  overgrown  buzzard,  will  you? 
There  you  roost  till  Mi  randy  comes  to  look  for  you." 

Mormon  pleaded  and  Sam  pretended  to  be  inflex- 
ible. At  last  they  came  to  a  capitulation.  Mormon 
promised  to  keep  his  hands  off  Sam,  and  the  latter 
vowed  he  would  gibe  no  more  about  Mormon's  matri- 
monial affairs,  past,  present  or  future. 

"An'  don't  look  nothin',  neither,"  added  Mormon 
as  Joe  glided  into  sight  and  grunted  his  message. 

"Grub  piled.     Squaw  she  say  hurry." 

For  the  life  of  him  Sam  could  not  resist  a  side  glance 
of  mirthful  suggestion  at  Miranda's  tendency  to  issue 
orders.  Mormon  did  not  notice  it. 

'There's  room  for  five — supposed  to  be — in  my 
car,"  said  Miranda.  "An'  there's  four  of  us  an'  six  to 
come  back.  The  other  car's  in  use.  How  we  goin'  to 
manage  it?" 

"Mormon  c'ud  take  the  Nicholson  party  on  his  lap, 
if  she  ain't  too  finicky,"  suggested  Sam.  This  was 
hewing  close  to  the  line,  and  Mormon  glared  at  him 
while  the  spinster  sniffed. 


EAST  AND  WEST  269 

"Molly'll  ride  in  with  me,"  said  Sandy.  "I'm  goin' 
over  early  on  Pronto  an'  take  the  white  blazed  bay 
along  that  Molly  rode  over  the  Goats'  Pass." 

"Ride  in?" 

"She  wrote  she  was  jest  waitin'  fo'  the  minute  she 
c'ud  climb  into  a  real  saddle,  astride  a  range-bred 
hawss,"  said  Sandy. 

"She  won't  be  dressed  for  it,  travelin'  on  the  train," 
said  Mi  randy. 

"I've  got  a  hunch  she  will,"  Sandy  answered  simply. 
"They  got  their  own  private  car.  If  she  ain't,  why, 
Sam  can  ride  the  bay  back.  But  me  an'  Pronto,  the 
bay  an'  Grit  are  goin'  thataway." 

There  were  certain  tones  of  Sandy's  voice  that  gave 
absolute  finality  to  his  statements.  He  used  them  on 
this  occasion.  The  argument  dropped.  In  a  way 
Sandy  was  making  the  matter  a  test  of  Molly.  If  she 
was  as  anxious  as  she  wrote  to  "fork  a  bronco,"  if 
she  understood  Sandy  and  he  her,  she  would  feel  that 
he  would  be  waiting  with  her  mount  for  her  to  return 
to  the  ranch  western  fashion.  If  not,  it  meant  that  she 
was  out  of  the  chrysalis  and  had  become,  not  the  busy 
bee  that  belongs  to  the  mesquite  and  the  sage,  but  a 
gaudier,  less  responsible  flutterer  among  eastern 
ilower-beds. 

The  bay  with  the  white  blaze  had  been  groomed  by 
Sandy  until  his  hide  was  glossy  and  rich  as  polished 
mahogany,  while  the  blaze  on  his  nose  shone  like  a 
plate  of  silver.  His  dark  mane  and  tail  had  been 
braided  and  combed  until  it  crinkled  proudly,  the  light 


270  RIMROCK  TRAIL: 

shone  from  his  curves  as  he  moved,  reflecting  the  sky 
in  the  high-lights.  Hoofs  had  been  oiled  and  Sandy 
had  attended  to  his  shoeing.  The  bay  had  been  up  for 
a  month  and  fed  until  he  was  almost  pampered,  save 
that  Sandy  took  the  excess  pepper  out  of  him  every 
morning. 

A  new  saddle  came  from  Cheyenne,  most  famous  of 
all  cities  for  making  of  saddles  that  are  tailor-made, 
the  leather  carved  cunningly  into  arabesques  of  cac- 
tus design,  bossed  and  rimmed  here  and  there  with 
silver,  the  pattern  carried  over  into  the  tapideros  that 
hooded  the  stirrups,  even  into  the  bridle.  It  was  a 
masterpiece  of  art  craft,  that  saddle,  "made  for  a  lady 
to  ride  astride,"  and  it  cost  Sandy  an  even  quarter  of 
a  thousand  dollars. 

Sam  and  Mormon  knew  of  the  grooming  of  the 
horse  but,  when  the  saddle,  cinched  above  a  Navajo 
blanket,  smote  their  vision,  they  blinked  and  com- 
plained. They  too  had  gifts  for  the  homecomer,  but 
Sandy's  outshone  them  as  a  newly  minted  five-dollar 
gold  piece  does  a  silver  coin. 

"If  that  don't  win  her  to  stay  west  there  ain't  no 
use  a-tryin',"  declared  Sam  as  Sandy  mounted  and 
rode  away,  leading  the  bay.  Grit,  newly  washed  also, 
sorely  against  his  will,  since  he  did  not  know  the 
occasion  of  the  bath  at  the  time  of  suffering  it,  went 
bounding  on  pads  of  rubber,  leaping  up,  tearing  ahead 
and  back,  a  shuttling  streak  of  gold  and  silver. 

Miranda's  caravan  started  an  hour  later,  she  driv- 
ing, Mormon  and  Sam  in  the  back,  each  dressed  in  his 


EAST  AND  WEST  271 

best,  minus  chaperajos  and  spurs,  but  otherwise  most 
typically  the  cowboy  and  therefore  out  of  place — and 
feeling  it — as  they  sat  stiffly  in  the  leatherette-lined 
tonneau.  Miranda  was  in  starched  linen,  destitute  of 
all  ornament,  a  dark  red  ribbon  at  her  throat  the  only 
touch  of  color,  looking  extremely  efficient  and,  as 
Sam  whispered  to  Mormon,  "a  bit  stand-offish."  He 
wanted  to  add,  "  'count  of  the  Nicholson  party,"  but 
dared  not. 

The  train  rolled  in  majestically,  the  private  car 
gleaming  with  varnish  and  polished  glass  and  brass, 
with  a  white-coated  darky  flashing  white  teeth  on  the 
platform  as  the  fussy  local  engine  took  the  detached 
luxury  to  the  side-track  designated  for  its  Hereford 
location.  There,  forewarned  by  the  agent,  much  of 
Hereford  assembled  to  witness  the  arrival  of  the  mag- 
nate who  had  helped  to  place  them  more  definitely  on 
the  map  and  increased  their  revenues  as  supply  depot 
for  Casey  Town.  The  flivver  was  parked  and  Mi- 
randa, Mormon  and  Sam  made  one  group  a  little  ahead 
of  the  others,  recognized  by  the  crowd  as  privileged. 
Sandy  sat  Pronto,  talking  to  the  restive  bay,  proudly 
conscious  of  its  new  trappings  and  the  remarks  of  the 
onlookers. 

If  Wilson  Keith,  clad  in  tweeds  tailored  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  a  little  portly,  square-faced,  confident,  a  tri- 
fle condescending,  typified  the  East,  Sandy  was  the 
West.  A  good  horse  is  the  incarnation  of  symmetry, 
grace  and  power.  Sandy,  erect  in  the  saddle,  lean  and 
keen,  matched  all  of  Pronto's  fitness.  Man  and 


272  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

mount  both  eminently  belonged  to  the  land,  shimmer- 
ing with  sage,  far-stretching  to  the  mountains,  a  land 
that  demanded  and  bred  such  a  combination. 

Sandy's  clean-shaven  face  was  sharp  with  obstacles 
faced  and  overcome,  his  eyes  held  clean  fine  spirit,  his 
jaw  showed  determination  and  the  good  lines  of  his 
mouth  belied  obstinacy.  He  wore  the  regalia  of  his 
cow-punching  holidays,  soft-collared  shirt  of  blue,  silk 
bandanna  of  dark  weave  in  lieu  of  tie,  leather  gaunt- 
lets, leather  chaps,  fringed  and  buttoned  with  leather 
and  trimmed  with  disk  of  silver,  silver  spurs  on  his 
high-heeled  boots,  trousers  of  dark  gray  stripe,  a  quirt 
with  the  handle  plaited  in  black  and  white  diamonds 
of  horsehair  dangling  from  one  wrist,  and  the  blue 
Colts  in  the  twin  holsters.  He  could  not  avoid  being 
picturesque,  yet  there  was  nothing  of  the  masquerader, 
the  moving-picture  cowboy.  He  held  the  eye,  even 
of  Hereford,  but  only  because  they  liked  to  gaze  upon 
a  good  man  on  a  good  horse.  His  body  responded  to 
every  shift  of  Pronto,  jigging  impatiently,  showing 
off,  pretending  to  be  afraid  of  the  panting  locomo- 
tive, body  shining  like  metal  of  bronze  and  aluminum, 
his  nostrils  pink  as  the  inside  of  a  shell,  ears  twitching, 
rider  and  mount  one  in  every  movement.  Grit  stood 
with  plumy  tail  erect  and  waving  gently,  ears  up,  red 
tongue  playing  between  white  teeth,  his  eyes  like 
jewels;  braced  on  his  feet,  tiptoe  on  his  pads,  watch- 
ing the  parking  of  the  private  car  with  now  and  then  a 
glance  of  inquiry  at  Sandy. 

Keith  stood  by  the  railing  of  his  platform,  the  darky 


EAST  AND  WEST  273 

ready  with  the  dismounting  stool.  He  surveyed  the 
crowd  affably,  with  the  poise  of  a  successful  candidate 
assured  of  welcome,  waving  his  hand  in  demi-salute 
to  Sandy,  -Sam  and  Mormon,  lifting  his  hat  gracious- 
ly to  Miranda  Bailey.  The  man  and  the  car  emanated 
prosperity.  Yet,  for  all  the  booming  of  Casey  Town, 
the  finding  of  pay-ore,  the  sale  of  shares,  Keith's 
present  financial  status  was  not  all  that  he  trusted  it 
might  be  within  a  short  time.  It  was  part  of  the 
technique  of  his  profession  to  assume  a  mask  and 
manner  of  financial  success,  and  of  late  he  had  worn 
these  until  at  times  they  jaded  him,  but  they  were 
well  designed,  well  worn,  and  no  one  doubted  but 
that  Wilson  Keith  was  a  man  of  ready  millions. 

Keith  was  essentially  a  gambler.  He  knew  that 
those  who  bought  his  shares  were  largely  tinctured 
with  the  same  spirit  that  exists,  more  or  less,  in  almost 
every  man.  They  were  amateurs  and  Keith  the  pro- 
fessional, that  was  the  main  difference.  The  average 
man  likes  to  believe  himself  lucky.  Keith  was  no 
exception.  He  knew  the  prevalence  of  the  trait  and 
traded  upon  it.  Also  he  knew  the  gold  mining  game 
from  prospect  to  prospectus  and  possible  profit.  But 
the  expert  faro-dealer,  after  his  trick  is  over,  is  apt 
to  take  his  wages  to  the  roulette  wheel  of  an  opposition 
house  and  buck  a  game  that  his  experience  tells  him 
is,  like  his  own,  run  with  the  percentages  against  the 
player. 

Keith  had  dallied  with  oil,  had  speculated,  plunged, 
been  persuaded  to  invest  heavily.  He  was  beginning 


274  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

to  have  a  vague  fear  of  not  being  so  certain  as  he 
would  have  wished  as  to  which  end  of  the  line  he 
had  taken,  that  of  the  baited  hook,  or  the  end  that  was 
attached  to  the  reel  that  automatically  plays  the  fish. 

He  sold  gold  and  he  was  buying  oil.  More,  he  was 
sinking  wells,  infected  with  the  fever  of  the  game, 
whereas,  with  his  own  mines,  he  was  cool  with  the 
poise  of  the  physician  who  takes  count  of  a  pulse. 
Others,  partners  with  him  in  new  enterprises  in  the 
petroleum  field,  were  making  sudden  fortunes.  His 
turn  had  not  come  yet,  but  they  assured  him  that  his 
ventures  promised  even  more  than  those  that  had 
enriched  them.  Faster  than  gold  came  out  of  Casey 
Town,  Keith  used  it  in  Oklahoma  and  Texas.  He  had 
come  west  to  view  his  resources,  to  strain  them  to  the 
utmost,  to  overlook  the  ground  with  the  eye  of  the 
past-master  of  promotion,  who  could  conjure  up  vis- 
ions of  wealth  from  the  barest  indication  of  pay-ore, 
trusting  to  find  inspiration  for  further  flotation  on 
his  return  to  New  York,  his  market-place,  "fresh 
from  the  field  of  operations." 

The  engine  uncoupled  and  panted  off,  leaving  the 
car  at  rest  on  the  spur-track.  The  fox-faced  secretary 
came  out,  held  the  door  open.  Some  one  followed 
Molly  Casey.  Sandy  surmised  it  must  be  Donald 
Keith,  but  he  had  sight  for  nothing  except  the  slender 
figure  whose  radiant  face,  between  a  Panama  hat  and 
a  dustcoat  of  pongee  silk,  shone  straight  at  him.  It 
was  Molly,  but  a  glorified  Molly,  woman  not  girl. 
The  freckles  had  gone,  the  snub  nose  had  become 


EAST  AND  WEST  275 

defined,  the  eyes  of  Irish  blue  seemed  to  have  deep- 
ened in  hue  back  of  their  smudgy  lashes.  The  wide 
mouth  was  the  same,  scarlet  and  soft  as  cactus  blos- 
som, smiling,  opening  in  a  glad  cry.  .  .  . 

"Sandy !"  Her  arms  went  out  toward  him  in  greet- 
ing over  the  brass  railing.  Then  Grit,  catapulting 
from  ground  to  platform,  with  frantic  yaps  of  wel- 
come, fairly  bowled  over  the  darky  with  his  mounting 
block  and  bounded  up  into  Molly's  embrace.  There 
was  confusion  on  the  platform  for  a  moment  with 
Grit  as  the  nucleus.  Another  person  had  come  out, 
evidently  Miss  Nicholson.  She  was  neither  under- 
nourished nor  thin,  she  was  medium-sized  and  her 
bones  were  well  covered.  She  had  the  general  appear- 
ance of  a  white  rabbit  and  the  manners  of  a  mater- 
nally intentioned  but  none  too  efficient  hen.  "Amen- 
able" described  her  in  one  word.  The  darky  was 
bringing  out  kitbags  and  suit-cases,  piling  them  on  the 
ground.  Sam  tackled  him  and  showed  him  the  flivver. 

"There's  a  cupple  of  trunks/'  said  the  porter. 

"We'll  come  back  for  them,"  Sam  told  him  and 
helped  him  pile  in  the  smaller  baggage. 

Keith  descended  first,  Molly  darted  by  his  extended 
hand  and  ran  straight  to  Sandy,  who  had  dismounted. 

"I'm  going  to  hug  you,  and  Mormon  and  Sam,  as 
soon  as  we  get  home  to  the  ranch,"  she  cried.  "Home ! 
I'm  so  glad  to  be  here.  Pronto,  you  beauty,  and  my 
own  bay,  Blaze !  Do  you  remember  the  trip  over  the 
mesa,  Blaze?  How  did  you  know  I  wanted  to  ride 
to  Three  Star  instead  of  drive?" 


276  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Took  a  chance,"  said  Sandy.  "Do  you?"  The 
old  woman-shyness  had  come  over  him,  fighting  with 
his  knowledge  of  the  child  who  had  changed  into  a 
woman.  And  the  pongee  duster  deceived  him. 

"Do  I  ?  Didn't  I  write  you  I  was  aching  to  fork  a 
saddle?  Look!" 

She  unbuttoned  the  duster  with  swift  fingers  and 
stripped  it  off,  standing  revealed  in  riding  togs  of 
smallest  black  and  white  checks,  coat  flaring  out  from 
the  trim  waist,  slim  straight  legs  in  breeches  and  rid- 
ing boots,  a  white  stock  about  the  slender,  rounded 
neck.  She  gave  one  hand  to  Mormon,  the  other  to 
Sam,  gazing  at  her  in  admiration  that  was  radiant 
and  goggle-eyed. 

"You're  losing  weight,  Mormon,"  she  said.  "I  be- 
lieve you  must  be  in  love." 

"I  allus  was,  with  you,"  gallantried  Mormon. 

"You  stand  aside,  you  human  chuckawalla !"  said 
Sam.  "Miss  Molly,  you  sure  look  good  to  sore  eyes. 
An'  I'm  sure  happy  you're  in  my  debt,  if  you  ain't 
grown  up  too  fur  to  pay  yore  dues." 

"I  always  pay  my  debts,  Sam.  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"It  was  me  kissed  the  dawg,"  said  Sam.  "I  give 
the  animile  somethin'  I  hadn't  received." 

Molly  laughed  at  him  reassuringly.  Sandy,  looking 
down  at  her,  saw  her  eyes  crinkle  at  the  corners  in 
the  old  way.  Keith  and  his  son  joined  them,  coming 
from  the  car,  the  Amenable  Nicholson  hovering  behind 
ingratiatingly. 


EAST  AND  WEST  277 

"Glad  to  to  see  you,  Bourke,"  he  said.  "And  you, 
Manning.  You  too,  Peters.  Meet  my  son,  Donald." 

The  three  partners  shook  hands  gravely  with  the 
boy,  appraising  him  without  his  guessing  it. 

"Glad  to  see  you  out  west,"  said  Mormon.  "We'd 
sure  admire  to  have  you  visit  us  fo'  a  spell." 

"I  was  hoping  for  a  bid,"  said  young  Keith. 
"Thanks.  The  car  is  here,  or  will  be  within  an  hour 
or  two.  Father  shipped  it  ahead.  Sims  wired  us  it 
was  at  the  junction.  He  will  drive  it  over  for  us  to  go 
on  to  Casey  Town  as  soon  as  he  overhauls  it.  Then 
I'll  run  in  from  the  mines,  as  soon  as  Dad  can  spare 
me." 

"Donald  has  to  get  acquainted  with  a  real  mining 
property,"  said  Keith  affably.  "Molly  was  certain  you 
would  have  a  horse  for  her,  Bourke.  Don't  wait  round 
for  us.  We  have  to  get  some  supplies  and  we'll  wait 
in  my  car  till  the  machine  comes.  Er" —  he  looked 
around,  and  Miss  Nicholson  fluttered  up — "this  is 
Molly's  companion,  Miss  Nicholson.  She  goes  with 
you  to  the  ranch.  How  .  .  .?" 

Sandy  indicated  the  flivver  and  introduced  Miranda 
Bailey,  who  had  been  directing  the  stowage  of  the 
grips  and  the  proper  subordination  of  the  porter,  who 
had  not  seemed  appreciative  of  the  flivver. 

Molly  held  out  a  gloved  hand  for  the  reins  of  the 
fretful  Blaze.  Young  Keith  advanced  with  the  proffer 
of  a  palm  of  her  mounting.  She  shook  her  head  at 
him. 

"Blaze  wouldn't  know  what  you  were  trying  to  do, 


278  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Don/5  she  said.  She  turned  the  stirrup,  set  in  her 
foot,  grasped  mane  and  horn  and  raised  herself  lightly, 
holding  her  body  close  to  the  bay's  withers  for  a 
second  as  he  whirled,  then  lifting  to  the  saddle,  firm- 
seated,  with  a  laugh  for  Blaze's  plungings. 

"I  see  they  didn't  unteach  you  ridin'  back  east," 
said  Mormon  admiringly. 

The  pair  rode  out  of  the  crowd  that  opened  for 
them,  with  whispered  comments  upon  Molly's  appear- 
ance, or  rather,  her  reappearance.  There  were  few 
stings  in  the  remarks ;  the  girl's  spontaneous  gaiety,  her 
absolute  unconsciousness  of  effort  or  cause,  her  evi- 
dent delight  in  htr  return  and  reunion  with  the  Three 
Star  partners,  disarmed  all  criticism  of  her  costume. 
The  Amenable  Nicholson  clambered  into  the  flivver 
beside  Miranda  Bailey.  Sam,  Mormon  and  the  grips 
packed  the  tonneau,  and  Keith  and  his  son  were  left 
standing  by  the  private  car. 

Keith  was  soon  surrounded  with  a  crowd,  making 
himself  popular,  flattering  them  until  they  finally  went 
away  convinced  that  they  had  all  constituted  a  first- 
class  reception  committee  to  meet  the  illustrious,  the 
energetic,  good-fellow-well-met  promoter  and  engineer 
of  other  people's  fortunes. 

Some  of  them  were  invited  into  the  car  for  a  private 
talk.  It  is  certain  that  cigars  were  handed  round  and 
it  was  hinted  that  some  private  stock  had  found  its 
way  upon  the  car.  When,  three  hours  later,  the  big 
machine  with  Sims  the  chauffeur,  imperturbable  as 
ever,  at  the  wheel,  departed  with  the  promoter  and  his 


EAST  AND  WEST  279 

heir,  the  name  of  Keith  was,  for  a  time  at  least,  a 
household  word  in  Hereford. 

There  was  not  much  spoken  between  Molly  and 
Sandy  on  the  way  back  to  the  ranch.  She  seemed  con- 
tent to  breathe  in  deep  the  herb-scented  air  and  gaze 
at  the  mountains. 

Sandy,  riding  a  little  to  one  side,  a  little  back  of 
her,  so  that  he  could  see  her  better  without  appearing 
to  stare,  echoed,  for  the  time,  her  happiness.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  this  ride  had  been  dreamed  of  by 
him,  long  ago,  as  if  he  had  always  known  this  was  to 
happen,  the  gallop,  side  by  side,  the  wind  in  their 
faces,  their  gaze  toward  the  range,  he  and  a  woman 
who  was  all  the  world  to  him.  Even  the  dog,  leaping 
beside  them  as  they  loped,  ranging  when  the  pinto  and 
the  bay  broke  to  a  breathing  walk,  belonged  in  that 
picture.  It  was,  he  told  himself,  as  if  a  boy  had  long 
cherished  an  illustration  seen  in  a  book  and,  suddenly, 
the  beloved  picture  had  become  real  and  he  a  part  of 
it. 

This  was  Molly,  the  girl,  who  had  sworn  when  she 
told  them  of  her  father's  death.  He  could  recall  the 
tone  of  the  words  at  will. 

"The  damned  road  jest  slid  out  from  under.  He 
didn't  have  a  hell-chance!" 

Molly,  who  had  put  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed 
him  good-by  when  she  went  to  school — how  long  ago 
that  seemed — and  said,  "Sandy,  I  don't  want  to  go, 
but  I'll  be  game." 

Game !    Sandy  looked  at  the  supple  strength  of  her, 


280  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

so  subtly  knit  in  curves  of  graciousness,  alert  and  up- 
right in  the  new  saddle,  Panama  hat  in  one  hand,  the 
better  to  get  the  wind  full  in  her  face,  her  cheeks 
flushed  with  the  caress  of  it,  the  thick  brown  braids 
fluffing  here  and  there ; — she  was  the  essence  of  game- 
ness.  He  had  quoted  Lasca  to  her  once — a  line  or  two. 
More  came  to  him  now. 

To  ride  with  me  and  forever  ride, 
From  San  Saba's  shore  to  Valacca's  tide. 

Molly,  who  had  told  him,  the  first  time  the  woman- 
look  had  come  into  her  eyes,  "Yo're  sure  a  white  man. 
Til  git  even  with  you  some  time  if  I  work  the  bones  of 
my  fingers  through  the  flesh  fo'  you.  Thanks  don't 
'mount  to  a  damn  'thout  somethin*  back  of  them  'em. 
I'll  come  through." 

That  Molly,  and  yet  another  Molly,  swiftly  matur- 
ing, with  all  life  opening  up  before  her  to  wider  hori- 
zons than  would  have  been  hers  if  she  had  stayed  back 
west. 

I  want  free  life  and  I  want  free  air, 
And  I  sigh  for  the  canter  after  the  cattle, 
The  crack  of  whips  like  shots  in  battle, 
The  melee  of  horns  and  hoofs  and  heads. 

Pronto's  hoofs  beat  out  the  cantering  rhythm  of 
the  poem. 

That  wars  and  wrangles  and  scatters  and  spreads, 
The  green  beneath  and  the  blue  above, 
And  dash  and  danger  and  life  and 


EAST  AND  WEST  281 

He  had  stopped  the  quotation  there  before.  Now 
he  finished  the  stanza, 

and  life  and  love 

Ana  Lasca! 

Only  it  was  Molly!  The  knowledge  swept  over 
Sandy  and  left  him  tingling.  Love  came  to  him,  the 
first,  clean  white  flame  of  first  love,  burning  like  a 
lamp  in  the  heart  of  a  man.  It  was  for  this,  he  knewr 
that  he  had  been  woman-shy,  that  he  had  cherished 
his  own  thought  of  womanhood  as  something  so  rare 
a  thought  might  tarnish  it.  First  love,  shorn  of  boy 
fallacies,  strong,  irresistible,  protective,  passionate. 
He  closed  his  eyes  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
touched  leather,  gripping  the  horn  of  his  saddle  as  if 
he  would  squeeze  it  to  a  pulp. 

Game  and  dainty,  tender,  true,  a  girl-woman,  part- 
ner— what  a  partner  she  would  make,  western-bred 
.! 

He  checked  himself  there.  She  was  western  born 
but,  what  had  the  transplanting  done?  Would  she 
ever  now  be  satisfied  with  western  ways  ?  She  would 
come  to  him,  Sandy  knew  that.  Whatever  he  asked 
her  she  would  not  refuse.  But  would  that  be  fair  to 
her?  And  he  did  not  want  her  to  come  to  him  out  of 
gratitude.  He  wanted  her  nature  to  fuse  with  his. 
Swiftly  maturing  as  she  had  done,  out  of  the  rugged- 
ness  of  her  early  years,  she  was  still  young  in  Sandy's 
eyes. 

It  seemed  no  time  since  he  had  taken  her  from  her 


282  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

saddle  and  carried  her,  a  tired  heartsore  child,  in  his 
arms.  She  must  have  a  fair  chance  to  see  if  the  East, 
with  all  it  could  offer  her  of  amusement  and  interest, 
would  not  outbid  the  claims  of  the  West.  He  must 
wait  and  watch  and  hold  himself  in  hand  though  his 
love  and  his  knowledge  of  it  thrilled  through  him, 
charging  him  as  if  with  an  electric  current  that  strove 
to  close  all  gaps  between  him  and  Molly,  struggling 
ever,  in  mind  and  body,  to  complete  the  circle. 

Molly  reined  up  Blaze  and  turned  in  her  saddle  to- 
ward him,  her  eyes  sparkling,  the  color  of  lupines 
damp  with  the  dew  of  dawn.  Their  eyes  met,  the 
glance  held,  welded.  For  a  moment  the  circuit  was 
formed,  polarity  effected.  For  a  moment  Sandy 
looked  deep  and  then  Molly's  eyes  hazed  with  tender- 
ness, with  a  yearning  that  made  Sandy's  heart  con- 
strict, that  warned  him  his  emotions  were  getting 
beyond  control,  his  own  eyes  betraying  him.  He  sum- 
moned his  will.  His  face  hardened  to  the  effort,  his 
eyes  steeled.  Molly's  face  flushed  rose,  from  the  line 
of  her  white  linen  riding  stock  up  to  her  hair,  then  it 
paled,  her  eyes  seemed  to  hold  surprise,  then  hurt. 
Their  expression  changed,  Sandy  could  not  read  it  now 
as  long  lashes  veiled  them.  He  spoke  with  an  effort, 
his  voice  sounded  strange  to  himself,  phonographic. 

"How's  the  saddle?"  he  heard  himself  asking. 

"It's  wonderful.  I'm  not  going  to  begin  to  thank 
you  for  it,  now,  Sandy." 

"Glad  to  be  back?" 

She  shook  her  head  at  him. 


EAST  AND  WEST  283 

"No  words  for  that,  Sandy."  Her  eyes  crinkled  at 
him,  with  a  hint  of  mischief,  the  old  Molly  looking  out. 
"If  you  want  to  find  that  out,  just  you  watch  my 
smoke,"  she  said,  and  set  her  heels  sharply  to  the 
flanks  of  her  mount.  The  astonished  Blaze  responded 
with  a  snort  and  a  leap  and  cut  loose  his  speed,  Sandy 
after  them  on  the  pinto. 

They  got  to  the  ranch  ahead  of  the  flivver  by  a 
scant  margin.  Miranda  Bailey  inducted  Molly  and  her 
chaperon  governess  into  the  quarters  she  had  helped 
prepare  for  them,  Molly  giving  little  cries  of  delight 
at  the  improvements  she  saw  down-stairs.  Miranda 
came  down  first  and  joined  the  partners. 

"Molly  is  certainly  sweet,"  she  said.  "She's  grown 
into  a  woman  an'  she's  grown  away  from  the  old 
Molly.  Can't  say  as  how  she's  affected  none  an'  her 
speech  an'  manners  is  sure  fine.  That  gel's  natche rally 
got  a  grand  disposition. 

"The  Nicholson  person — her  first  name  is  Clarice — 
is  well-meanin'  enough.  She  ain't  shif  less,  but  she 
ain't  what  you'd  call  practical.  I  reckon  she  does  fine 
in  teachin'  Molly  some  things,  but  she'd  be  plumb 
wasted  out  West.  She  never  saw  a  churn  an'  she'd 
likely  die  of  thirst  before  she'd  ever  learn  how  to  milk 
a  cow.  She's  like  the  rest  of  'em  back  East,  I  imagine, 
goes  fine  so  long  as  folks  can  be  hired  to  do  everything 
fo'  you.  I'll  say  she  never  washed  out  anything* 
bigger  than  a  hankychif  or  cooked  a  thing  larger'n  an 
egg.  An'  she  c'udn't  boss  a  sick  lizard.  But  she's 
easy  to  git  along  with,  I  suppose." 


284  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

There  was  a  certain  complacency  about  the  spinster's 
summing  up  of  the  Amenable  Nicholson  that  made 
Sam  wink  covertly  at  Sandy,  watching  Mormon  at 
the  same  time.  Sam  was  convinced  that,  despite  the 
handicap  of  a  third  wife,  present  whereabouts  un- 
known, Miranda  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry 
Mormon  and  regarded  all  other  women  as  possible 
rivals. 

"That  Donald  is  a  good-lookin'  lad,"  went  on  Mi- 
randa. "It  must  take  him  an  awful  waste  of  time  to 
fix  his  clothes  every  time  he  puts  'em  on.  I  don't 
know  how  smart  he  is  inside,  but  he's  got  some  of  them 
movin'-picture  heroes  beat  on  appearance.  I'm  won- 
derin'  what  Molly  thinks  about  him.  As  for  his 
father,  he's  smart  enough  inside  an'  out.  But  he  talks 
too  much  like  a  politician  to  suit  me.  I'm  mighty 
glad  we  got  cash  for  our  claims.  Keith's  too  slick  an' 
smooth  an'  smilin'  to  suit  me.  So  long  as  he  had  lots 
he'd  give  you  some  to  help  the  game  erlong  but,  when 
the  grazin'  gits  short,  he'll  hog  the  range  or  quit  it. 
That's  my  opinion.  Or  ruther,  it  ain't  my  opinion, 
for  I  ain't  done  a  heap  of  thinkin'  on  it,  it's  the  way 
I  feel.  Some  apples  sets  my  teeth  on  aidge  before  I 
know  it,  some  victuals  riles  my  stomach  jest  to  men- 
tion 'em.  I  never  cud  abear  castor-ile,  jest  the  men- 
tion of  it  makes  me  squirmy.  Keith  affects  me  that 
way,  on'y  in  my  mind,  well  as  in  the  pit  of  my  stom- 
ach." 

It  was   a  lengthy  diatribe  from  Miranda  Bailey, 
accustomed  as  they  were  to  hear  her  state  opinions 


EAST  AND  WEST  285 

freely.  The  trio  at  Three  Star  had  universally  come 
to  respect  her  decisions  and  also  her  intuitions  and 
none  of  them  had  felt  especially  cordial  toward  Keith 
as  a  man,  though  they  considered  him  good  in  his 
profession. 

"The  writer,  Kiplin',"  said  Sandy,  "wrote  a  poem 
about  East  an'  West,  sayin'  that  never  the  two  c'ud 
meet.  I  reckon  he  meant  White  Man  an'  Yeller  Man 
but,  seems  to  me,  sometimes  they  do  breed  mighty 
different  east  an'  west  of  the  Mississippi.  The  man  in 
New  York  is  sure  a  heap  different  from  the  man  in 
Denver  or  San  Francisco  or  Phoenix.  Out  here  we 
reckon  a  man  is  square  till  we  find  him  out  different 
an',  back  East,  they  figger  he's  a  crook  till  he  proves 
he  ain't — which  is  apt  to  be  some  job.  I  don't  cotton 
to  Keith  myse'f,  because  he  ain't  my  kind  of  a  hombre. 
He  don't  talk  my  talk,  or  think  my  line  of  thought,  any 
mo'  than  he  wears  the  same  clothes  or  does  the  same 
work.  Give  him  a  cow  pony  or  strand  me  alongside 
one  of  them  stock-market  tickers  an*  we'd  both  look 
foolish.  I'm  playin'  him  as  square  till  I  find  he  ain't. 
Ef  he  tries  to  flam  jigger  Molly  out  of  anything  that's 
comin'  to  her  by  rights,  why,  I  reckon  that's  one 
time  the  West  an'  East  is  goin'  to  meet — an'  mebbe 
lap  over  a  bit.  So  fur,  he's  put  money  in  our  pockets. 
Here's  Molly  .  .  ." 

"I'm  goin'  home,"  said  Miranda,  as  the  girl  entered 
the  room.  "I've  got  you  started  an'  I'll  run  over  once 
in  a  while  to  see  how  Pedro  is  makin'  out." 

She  said  good-by  to  Molly,  who  had  swiftly  changed 


286  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

out  of  her  riding  clothes  into  a  gown  that  looked  simple 
enough  to  Sandy,  though  he  sensed  there  were  touches 
about  it  that  differentiated  it  from  anything  turned 
out  locally.  With  the  dress  she  looked  more  womanly, 
older,  than  in  the  boyish  breeches.  Miss  Nicholson 
had  made  some  changes  also,  but  she  had  a  chameleon- 
like  faculty  of  blending  with  the  background  that  pre- 
served her  alike  from  being  criticized  or  conspicuous. 
As  she  shook  hands  with  Miranda  the  two  presented 
marked  contrasts.  Miranda  was  twentieth-century- 
western,  of  equal  rights  and  equal  enterprise;  Miss 
Nicholson  mid- Victorian,  with  no  more  use  for  a  vote 
than  for  one  of  Sandy's  guns.  Yet  likable. 

"I'm  going  to  Daddy's  grave,"  said  Molly,  when 
Miranda  had  flivvered  off.  "I  wish  the  three  of  you 
would  come  there  to  me  in  about  ten  minutes.  Miss 
Nicholson,  everybody's  at  home  here.  Please  do  any- 
thing you  want  to,  nothing  you  don't  want  to.  She 
rides,  Sandy.  And  rides  well.  Can  you  get  up  a  horse 
for  her  to-morrow?" 

Miss  Nicholson's  face  flushed,  the  suggestion  of  a 
high-light  came  into  her  mild  eyes. 

"I  used  to  ride  a  good  deal,"  she  said.  "But  I  have 
no  saddle,  no  habit,  and  I  am  afraid — "  She  hesitated 
looking  at  them  in  embarrassment. 

"Nicky,  dear,  you  must  learn  to  ride  western  fash- 
ion. With  divided  skirts,  if  you  like.  We  can  get 
you  a  khaki  outfit  in  Hereford." 

"I  should  like  to  try  it,"  said  Miss  Nicholson,  her 
face  still  flaming,  the  high-light  quite  apparent. 


EAST  AND  WEST  287 

"Up  to  you,  Sam,"  said  Sandy.  "I  sh'ud  think  the 
blue  roan  w'ud  suit." 

"I'll  have  her  gentled  to  a  divvy-skirt  this  time  ter- 
morrer,"  said  Sam  gallantly.  "You've  got  pluck, 
marm — I  mean,  miss — an'  once  you've  forked  a  saddle, 
you'll  never  ride  otherwise." 

Miss  Nicholson  gasped  at  Sam's  metaphor  and  Mor- 
mon kicked  him  on  the  shin. 

"What's  the  idea?"  he  demanded  after  Molly  had 
gone  out  and  Miss  Nicholson  had  ensconced  herself 
on  the  veranda  with  a  book. 

"You're  plumb  indelicut.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yorese'f.  You  got  to  be  careful  round  females,  Sam 
Mannin',  with  yore  expressions.  Speshully  one  like 
this  Nicholson  party.  She's  a  lady." 

"Who  in  hell  said  she  ain't?"  demanded  Sam.  "Me 
— I  guess  I  know  how  to  treat  a  lady,  well  as  the  nex' 
man.  I  don't  notice  you  ever  made  a  grand  success  of 
it  with  yore  three-strikes-an'-out." 

Mormon  disdained  to  reply.  They  went  outside 
and,  at  the  end  of  the  ten  minutes,  walked  together 
toward  the  cottonwoods.  Grit  was  lying  on  the  grave, 
and  they  saw  Molly  kneeling  by  the  little  railing.  They 
advanced  silently  over  the  turf  and  stood  in  a  group 
about  her  with  their  hats  off  and  their  heads  bowed. 
Grit  made  no  move  and  Molly  did  not  look  up  for  two 
or  three  minutes.  Then  she  greeted  them  with  a  smile. 
There  were  no  tear-signs  on  her  face  though  her  eyes 
were  moist. 

"I  wanted  to  thank  you  all,"  she  said,  "and  to  tell 


288  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

you  how  glad  I  am  to  be  back.  I  have  met  lots  of 
people,  of  all  sorts  and  kinds,  but  not  one  of  them  who 
could  hold  a  candle  to  any  of  you  three  kind,  true- 
hearted  friends.  I  wanted  to  do  it  here  where  Daddy 
is  in  the  place  you  gave  him  and  made  for  him  under 
the  trees,  close  to  the  running  water.  I  was  only  a 
girl — a  kiddie — when  I  went  away.  I  think  I  am  a 
great  deal  older  now,  perhaps,  than  other  girls  of  my 
age.  And  I  realize  all  you  have  done  for  me.  The 
only  thing  is,  I  don't  know  how  to  begin  to  thank 
you." 

She  went  to  Mormon  and  took  hold  of  both  his 
hands,  her  head  raised,  lips  curved  to  kiss  him.  Mor- 
mon stooped  and  turned  his  weathered  cheek,  but 
Molly  kissed  him  full  on  the  lips.  So  with  Sam, 
despite  the  enormous  mustache.  Then  she  came  to 
Sandy,  taller  than  the  others,  his  face  grave,  under 
control,  the  eagerness  smothered  in  his  eyes,  desire 
checked  by  reverence  for  the  pure  affection  of  the  of- 
fered salute.  He  fancied  that  her  lips  trembled  for  a 
moment  as  they  rested  softly  warm,  upon  his  own. 
But  the  tremor  might  have  been  his  own.  He  knew 
his  heart  was  pounding  against  the  slight  touch  of 
her  slenderness  that  was  manifest  with  womanhood. 
His  arms  ached  with  the  restraint  he  set  upon  them, 
despite  the  presence  of  Mormon  and  Sam. 

Grit  surveyed  the  gift  of  thanks  gravely,  as  a  cere- 
mony, as  some  ancient  lineaged  noble  might  have 
looked  upon  the  bestowal  of  sacrament  and  accolade 
for  honorably  deserved  knighthood.  Perhaps  it  was 


EAST  AND  WEST  289 

that  and  the  dog  knew  it.  To  Sandy,  the  little  space 
about  the  grave,  where  the  great  cottonwoods  waved 
overhead  like  banners,  their  trunks  like  pillars,  the 
dappled  carpet  of  the  turf,  with  the  sweet  air  blowing 
through  the  clearing  and  peeps  of  blue  above  through 
the  boughs,  was  like  a  sanctuary.  That  the  two  others, 
men  of  rough  life  and  free  habit,  yet  of  clean  thought 
and  decent  custom,  were  touched  with  the  same  sensa- 
tion, their  eyes  attested. 

"I've  brought  some  things  for  you,"  said  Molly. 
"Just  presents  that  I  bought  in  shops.  But  I  wanted 
to  thank  you  out  here  where  Daddy  lies."  She  sought 
their  glances,  searching  to  see  if  they  understood,  sat- 
isfied. 

"We're  sure  glad  to  git  back  the  Mascot  of  the 
Three  Star,"  said  Mormon. 

"An'  the  sooner  you  git  through  bein'  eddicated  an' 
come  back  fo'  keeps,  the  better,"  amended  Sam. 

Sandy  said  nothing  but  smiled  at  her  and  Molly 
smiled  back  again. 

"I  think  you  have  been  my  mascot  rather  than  me 
yours,"  she  demurred. 

"Shucks!"  said  Mormon.  "Yore  mine,  warn't  it? 
He  found  it,"  he  added,  setting  a  brown  big  hand  on 
the  headstone.  "You  wait  till  you  see  what  we  bought 
with  our  share  of  the  Molly  Mine.  Prime  stock  an' 
machinery.  Look  at  the  new  corrals  an'  buildin's. 
Wait  till  you've  gone  over  the  place.  An'  we  sure 
have  been  lucky  with  everything  I'll  say  you're  a  mas- 
cot." 


290  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I've  still  got  my  lucky  piece,"  she  said  and  pulled 
out  of  her  neck,  suspended  by  the  fine  chain  of  gold, 
the  gold  piece  with  which  Sandy  had  won  the  stake 
that  had  started  her  east.  "Now  show  me  all  the 
improvements.  We'll  get  Kate  Nicholson.  She's  a 
first-class  scout  if  you  ever  get  her  out  of  the  shell 
she  crawled  into  a  long  time  ago  wThen  her  folks  sud- 
denly lost  everything  they  had.  If  we  had  a  piano, 
Sam,  she'd  play  the  soul  out  of  your  body.  Wait  until 
she  gets  at  the  harmonium  to-night.  You  and  she  will 
have  to  play  duets,  Sam,  you  on  the  three-decked  har- 
monica I  got  for  you." 

"Aw,  shucks!"  protested  Sam?    "I'm  no  musician." 

"You  are,"  she  said  gaily.  "You  are  my  Three 
Wise  Men  of  the  West.  You  are  all  magicians.  You 
took  me  out  of  the  desert,  you  have  made  life  beautiful 
for  me.  Don't  dispel  the  illusion,  Soda- Water  Sam. 
I'd  rather  hear  you  play  El  Capitan  than  listen  to  the 
Philharmonic  Orchestra." 

"Whatever  that  is,"  answered  Sam. 

Molly's  words  were  light  but  her  eyes  were  frankly 
wet  now  and  so  were  those  of  the  three  men. 

"Come,  Grit,"  she  said,  and  the  dog  bounded  to 
her,  licking  her  hand,  and  so  to  the  rest  of  them  cement- 
ing the  alliance  in  his  own  way. 

"Some  day!"  speculated  Mormon  as  they  went  to 
the  ranch-house.  He  got  a  good  deal  into  those  two 
words,  for  all  three  of  them. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS 

IN  THE  week  that  followed  the  partners  of  the  Three 
Star  managed  to  find  many  hours  for  holiday-mak- 
ing. The  ranch  ran  well  on  its  own  routine,  and  Molly 
was  a  princess  to  be  entertained.  Kate  Nicholson 
emerged  from  her  chrysalis  and  became  almost  a  but- 
terfly rather  than  the  pale  gray  moth  they  had  fancied 
her.  Even  Miranda  revised  her  opinion.  The  Nichol- 
sons, it  came  out,  had  been  a  family  of  some  conse- 
quence and  a  fair  degree  of  riches  in  South  Carolina 
before  an  unfortunate  speculation  had  taken  everything. 
Kate  Nicholson,  left  alone  soon  afterward,  had 
assumed  the  role  of  governess  or  companion  with  more 
or  less  success  and  drifted  on,  submerged  in  the  families 
who  had  used  her  services  until  Keith  had  secured  her 
for  the  post  with  Molly  when  things  had  seemed  par- 
ticularly black.  Now,  riding  with  Molly,  with  Sam 
and  Sandy  for  escorts,  over  the  open  range  or  up  into 
the  canons,  on  picnics,  the  years  slid  off  from  her. 
She  acquired  color  with  the  capacity  for  enjoyment, 
she  developed  a  quaint  gift  of  jest  and  she  proved  a 
natural  horsewoman.  Molly  coaxed  her  into  different 
modes  of  hair  dressing  and  little  touches  of  color.  She 

291 


292  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

laughed  understandingly  and  talked  spontaneously 
Evenings,  when  they  would  return  to  the  disconsolate 
Mormon,  who  bewailed  openly  his  lack  of  saddle  ease, 
they  found,  two  nights  out  of  three,  Miranda  Bailey, 
self-charioted  in  her  flivver  with  offerings  of  cake  and 
doughnuts  to  supplement  Pedro's  still  uncertain 
efforts. 

Molly  chuckled  once  to  Sandy. 

"Miranda's  a  dear,"  she  said.  "I  wish  she'd  marry 
Mormon.  But  Kate  Nicholson  is  a  far  better  cook 
than  she  is.  Only  she  won't  do  anything  for  fear  of 
hurting  Miranda's  feelings." 

Yet  the  governess  did  cook  on  occasion,  trout  that 
they  caught  in  the  mountain  streams,  and  camp  biscuits 
and  fragrant  coffee  when  they  made  excursion,  so  deft 
a  presiding  genius  of  the  camp-fire  that  Sam  declared 
she  belonged  to  Sageland. 

"I  love  it,"  she  answered,  sleeves  tucked  to  the 
elbow,  stooping  over  the  fire,  her  face  full  of  color, 
tucking  a  vagrant  wisp  of  hair  into  place. 

"Not  much  like  the  East,  is  it,  Molly?"  Sandy 
would  ask. 

"Not  a  bit.    Lots  better." 

"You  must  miss  a  lot." 

"What,  for  instance,  Sandy?" 

"Real  music,  for  one  thing.  Concerts,  theaters 
Your  sports.  Tennis  and  golf.  The  people  you  met 
at  the  Keiths'.  Clothes,  pritty  dresses,  dancin'." 

"I  love  dancing,"  she  said.  "But  not  always  the 
way  they  dance.  Tennis  and  golf  are  poky  compared 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  293 

to  riding  Blaze.  I  like  pretty  things,  but  I'm  not  crazy 
about  clothes,  Sandy.  And  lots  of  them  are,  back 
there.  Grown-up  women  as  well  as  the  girls  I  knew. 
And  they  are  never  satisfied,  Sandy.  It  isn't  real 
there.  Nobody  seems  to  know  each  other.  Anybody 
could  drop  out  and  not  be  missed.  It  is  all  a  rush. 
It  is  good  to  be  back — good." 

She  stopped  talking,  gazing  into  the  fire.  The 
nights  at  Three  Star  were  crisp.  It  was  as  if  cold  was 
jealous  of  the  land  that  the  sun  wooed  so  ardently  and 
rushed  upon  it  the  moment  the  latter  sank  behind  the 
hills.  Sandy  looked  at  her  hungrily,  wishing  she 
would  elect  to  sit  there  always,  mistress  of  the  hearth 
and  of  him. 

"Young  Keith'll  be  over  soon,  I  reckon,"  he  said 
presently.  "He  said  he'd  come.  Like  him,  Molly?" 

It  was  not  jealousy  prompted  the  suggestion,  but 
Sandy  had  more  than  once  contrasted  himself  with  the 
youngster  and  his  easy  manners,  his  undeniably  good 
looks,  his  youth,  wondering  how  close  he  was  to 
Molly's  moods  and  ideals,  making  him  typical  of  the 
East  as  against  the  West. 

"He's  a  nice  boy,"  she  said.  "He  has  always  had 
things  his  own  way.  He's  partly  spoiled,  I'm  afraid. 
He'd  have  been  a  lot  nicer  if  he  had  been  brought  up 
on  a  ranch.  I've  told  him  so." 

"Why?" 

"Life's  quieter  out  here,  Sandy.  It's  bigger  some- 
how. Donald  only  pleases  himself.  He — they  don't 
seem  to  have  real  families  out  East,  Sandy.  I  don't 


294  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

quite  mean  that,  but  as  I  have  seen  them.  The  Keiths. 
They  are  kind  but  they  don't  belong  just  to  each  other. 
They  have  their  own  ways  and  none  of  them  do  any- 
thing together.  He's  been  nice  to  me — Donald.  So 
have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Keith." 

Sandy  had  no  effort  imagining  Donald  being  nice  to 
Molly,  contrasted  with  the  other  girls  who  just  amused 
themselves. 

"I'd  cut  a  pore  figger  at  tennis,  I  reckon,"  he  said. 
"Or  golf." 

"So  would  Donald  breaking  a  bronco,"  she  laughed. 
"He's  keen  to  ride  one,  to  see  a  round-up.  Why, 
Sandy,  they  think  life  is  wonderful  out  here.  And 
it  is." 

He  wondered  how  much  of  her  enthusiasm  was  last- 
ing, how  much  came  of  the  affectionate  gratitude  she 
showed  them  constantly,  how  much  she  thought  of  the 
swifter  life  she  was  going  back  to  presently  at  the  end 
of  the  month — with  one  week  gone  out  of  the  four. 
He  wrestled  with  the  temptation  to  ask  her  not  to  go 
back,  or  to  have  Miss  Nicholson  remain  on  the  ranch 
to  complete  the  education  that  was  steadily  widening 
— as  he  saw  it — the  gap  between  them. 

Sandy  was  not  ignorant.  His  speech  was  mostly 
dialect,  born  of  environment.  He  wrote  correctly 
enough,  aided  by  the  dictionary  he  had  acquired.  He 
had  business  capacity,  executive  ability,  strong  man- 
hood. He  read  increasingly,  his  mind  was  plastic. 
But  these  things  he  belittled.  And  he  was  her 
guardian.  Though  he  knew  he  might  win  her  promise 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  295 

to  stay  easily  enough,  he  did  not  wish  to  exercise  his 
authority.  It  might  be  misunderstood,  even  by  Molly 
herself,  later.  He  could  not  force  his  hand  in  this  vital 
matter,  as  he  handled  other  things.  And  yet  .  .  . 

Sam  had  stopped  playing,  Kate  Nicholson  was 
weaving  chords  in  music  unknown  to  those  who  lis- 
tened, save  that  it  seemed  to  speak  some  common 
language  that  had  been  forgotten  since  childhood.  The 
fire  shifted,  there  was  silence  in  the  big  room.  Mor- 
mon sat  shading  his  face,  Miranda  Bailey  beside  him, 
her  knitting  idle.  Sam  lounged  in  a  shady  corner 
near  the  harmonium.  Grit  lay  asleep.  It  was  infin- 
itely peaceful. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  motor  outside,  the  honk  of 
a  horn.  The  door  opened  and  a  man  came  in,  gazing 
uncertainly  about  him  in  the  half-light — Westlake. 

"This  is  the  Three  Star,  isn't  it?"  he  asked,  evi- 
dently puzzled  at  the  group. 

Sandy  lit  the  big  lamp  as  they  all  rose,  Grit  nosing 
the  engineer,  accepting  him. 

"Sure  is,"  he  said.  "You  know  Miss  Bailey,  West- 
lake?  Miss  Keith  an'  Miss  Nicholson,  Mr.  Westlake. 
They  both  know  something  about  you.  Come  to  stay, 
I  hope." 

His  voice  was  cordial  as  he  gripped  Westlake's  hand, 
though  the  remembrance  of  what  Sam  had  said  at  the 
mining  camp  leaped  up  within  him.  Westlake  and 
Molly!  Here  was  a  man  who  might  mate  with  her, 
might  suit  her  wonderfully  well.  Upstanding,  edu- 


296  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

cated,  no  lightweight  pleasure-seeker,  as  he  estimated 
Donald  Keith.  Here  was  a  complication  in  his  dreams 
of  happiness  that  he  had  lost  sight  of.  He  saw  the 
two  appraising  each  other  and  approving. 

"If  you  can  put  up  with  me,  for  a  bit,"  said  West- 
lake.  "I've  come  partly  on  business,  Bourke.  I've  left 
Casey  Town." 

He  seemed  to  speak  with  some  embarrassment, 
glancing  toward  Molly.  Sandy  sensed  that  something 
had  happened  with  his  relations  with  Keith. 

"You're  more  than  welcome,"  he  said.  "Any  one 
with  you?" 

"No,  I  came  over  with  a  machine  from  the  garage 
at  Hereford,"  he  said.  "I'll  get  my  things  and  send 
him  back." 

Sandy  went  outside  with  him  and  helped  him  with 
his  grips.     The  machine  started. 
"Quit  Keith?"  asked  Sandy. 

"Yes,  we  had  a  misunderstanding.  About  my  stay- 
ing here,  Bourke.  It  may  be  a  bit  awkward.  Young 
Donald  Keith  intends  coming  over,  I  am  sure  he 
doesn't  know  a  thing  about  his  father's  business  affairs. 
But  I  have  a  strong  hunch  that  Keith  himself  will  be 
along  later  to  offset  any  talk  he  thinks  I  may  have 
with  you.  He'll  figure  I've  come  here.  He  doesn't 
know  all  that  I  have  found  out,  at  that.  If  it's  likely 
to  embarrass  you  or  your  guests  in  the  least  I'll  go  on 
to  Denver  to-morrow.  I'm  headed  that  way.  I've  got 
a  South  American  proposition  in  view.  Wired  them 
yesterday  and  may  hear  at  any  minute." 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  297 

"Shucks !"  said  Sandy.  "Yo're  my  friend.  Young 
Keith  don't  interest  me,  save  as  Molly  wants  to  enter- 
tain him.  I'm  under  no  obligations  to  Keith  himse'f. 
Yo're  my  guest  an'  we'll  keep  you's  long  we  can  hold 
you  in  the  corral.  As  fo'  Molly,  you  don't  know  her. 
If  it  come  to  a  show-down  between  you  an'  Keith, 
with  you  in  the  right,  there  ain't  any  question  as  to 
where  she'd  horn  in." 

"I  had  no  idea  Miss  Casey  would  be  like — what  she 
is,"  said  Westlake,  as  Miranda  Bailey,  Mormon  in 
attendance,  came  out  of  the  house. 

"Time  fo'  me  to  be  trailin'  back,"  said  the  spinster. 
"Moon's  risin'.  Good  night,  Mr.  Westlake.  See  you 
ag'in  before  you  go,  I  hope.  I  reckon  you  sure  gave 
me  good  advice  when  you  said  to  take  cash  fo'  my 
claims." 

She  climbed  into  the  machine  which  Mormon 
cranked.  It  moved  off,  Mormon  watching  it.  Then 
Sam  came  out  and  joined  them. 

"Gels  gone  to  bed,"  he  announced.  "What's  Keith 
doin'  up  to  Casey  Town,  Westlake?" 

"It  won't  take  long  to  tell  you." 

The  four  walked  over  to  the  corral  and  the  three 
partners  climbed  on  the  top  rail,  ranch-fashion.  West- 
lake  stood  before  them. 

"Practically  all  the  gold  found  in  Casey  Town 
comes  from  the  main  gulch  where  the  creek  runs.  The 
gulch  was  once  non-existent.  It  is  likely  there  was  a 
hill  there.  Its  nub  was  a  porphyry  cap,  the  rest  of  it 
was  composed  of  layers  of  porphyry  and  valueless  rock 


298  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

dipping  downward,  nested  like  saucers  in  the  synclinal 
layers.  Ice  and  water  wore  off  the  nub  and  leveled 
the  hill,  then  gouged  out  the  gulch.  They  ground 
away,  in  my  belief,  all  the  porphyry  that  held  gold 
except  the  portions  now  lying  either  side  of  the  gulch. 
That  gold  was  distributed  far  down  the  creek,  carried 
by  glacier  and  stream.  Casey  found  indications  and 
worked  up  to  where  he  believed  he  had  struck  the 
mother  vein.  He  did  strike  it  but  it  had  been  worn 
down  like  the  blade  of  an  old  knife. 

"It  was  the  top  layers  that  held  the  richest  ore.  Of 
those  that  are  left  only  one  carries  it  and  that  is  the 
reef  that  outcrops  here  and  there  both  sides  of  the 
gulch.  This  isn't  theory.  All  strikes  have  been  made 
in  this  top  layer.  Where  they  have  sunk  through  to 
a  lower  porphyry  stratum  they  have  found  only  indica- 
tions where  they  found  anything  at  all.  But  the 
strikes  were  rich  because  sylvanite  is  one  of  the  richest 
of  all  gold  ores.  They  look  big  and  they  encourage 
further  development  and — what  is  more  to  the  point — 
further  investment.  Some  of  the  strikes  have  been  on 
the  Keith  Group  properties.  They  have  boosted  the 
stock  of  all  of  them. 

"I  have  been  developing  these  group  projects.  The 
value  of  group  promotion,  to  the  promoter,  is,  that  as 
long  as  one  claim  shows  promise,  the  shares  keep  sell- 
ing. The  public  loves  to  gamble.  Keith  came  back 
this  trip  and  proposed  to  purchase  a  lot  of  claims  that 
are  nothing  but  plain  rock,  surface  dirt  and  sage-brush. 
They  are  not  even  on  the  main  gulch.  He  can  buy 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  299 

them  for  almost  nothing.  But  he  does  not  propose  to 
sell  them  for  that.  He  was  going  to  start  another 
group.  He  ordered  me  to  make  the  preliminary  sur- 
veys. Later  I  was  to  plan  development  work,  to  make 
a  showing  for  his  prospectus. 

"He  knew  one  would  have  as  much  chance  digging 
in  a  New  York  back-yard.  I  told  him  so.  He  has  his 
own  expert  and,  if  he  didn't  tell  him  so  too,  he's  a 
crook. 

"Keith  said  he  understood  his  business  and  sug- 
gested I  should  attend  strictly  to  mine.  I  told  him  I 
understood  mine  and  that  it  included  some  personal 
honor.  I  was  hot.  I  suggested  that  wildcat  develop- 
ment was  not  my  business.  He  called  me  a  quixotic 
young  fool  among  other  things,  and  I  may  have  called 
him  a  robber.  I'm  not  sure.  Anyway,  I  quit. 

"Now,  Keith's  kept  me  off  from  the  properties  as 
soon  as  they  have  been  fairly  started  and  I  have  been 
only  consulting  engineer  for  the  Molly.  I've  been 
busy  on  preliminary  work.  The  engineer  he  brought 
from  New  York  has  been  in  actual  charge.  That  was 
all  right.  I'm  comparatively  a  kid.  But  I  know  what 
is  going  on  generally  in  Casey  Town.  There  have 
been  no  more  strikes,  for  one  thing;  the  discoveries 
have  all  been  in  the  one  layer  and  they  are  gradually 
working  out. 

"Keith  would  rather  develop  a  good  property  than  a 
bad  one.  He  has  established  himself,  has  a  future  to 
look  to.  He  carries  his  investing  clients  from  one 
proposition  to  another.  He  never  has  to  risk  his  own 


300  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

money  and  he  has  been  lucky.  He  has  made  money — 
lots  of  it.  Now  then,  why  does  he  start  wildcatting?" 

"Must  need  money,"  suggested  Sandy. 

'That's  my  idea.  I  believe  he's  been  stung  some- 
where. I  know  he's  been  fooling  with  oil  stocks.  His 
mail's  full  of  it.  And  I  believe  he's  been  bitten  by  the 
other  fellow's  game  instead  of  sticking  to  his  own." 

"It's  been  done  befo'." 

"But  that  isn't  all."  Westlake  brought  down  his 
right  fist  into  the  palm  of  his  left  hand  for  emphasis. 
"This  comes  from  information  I  can  rely  on,  from 
logical  deductions  of  my  own,  from  actual  observation 
of  conditions.  Yesterday  they  closed  up  the  stopes  in 
the  Molly.  Boarded  'em  over.  This  was  done  with- 
out consulting  me.  The  superintendent  talked  some 
rot  about  not  wishing  over-production  and  pushing 
development.  I  heard  of  it  after  I  had  walked  out  of 
Keith's  office,  resigned,  or  fired.  You  can't  issue  an 
order  like  that  without  miners  talking.  I  know  most 
of  them. 

"Now  then — there's  no  gold  left  back  of  the  board- 
ing in  those  stopes — practically  none!  The  Molly  is 
played  out,  picked  like  a  walnut  of  its  meat!  If  they 
do  develop  down  to  the  second  porphyry  level  they 
won't  find  anything  to  pay  for  the  work.  They  have 
taken  all  the  sylvanite  out  of  your  mine  and  Keith  is 
trying  to  cover  up  that  fact." 

Westlake  stopped  and  eyed  them.  They  took  it 
differently.  Mormon  softly  whistled.  Sam  slid  out 
his  harmonica,  cuddled  in  beneath  his  mustache  and 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  301 

played  a  little  of  the  Cowboy's  Lament.  Sandy's  eyes 
closed  slightly.  They  glittered  like  gray  metal  in  the 
moonlight. 

"Keith  can't  help  the  mine  peterin'  out,"  he  said. 
"Jest  why  is  he  hidin'  it  ?  So's  he  can  sell  new  shares 
an'  keep  the  price  up  of  the  old  ones.  So's  he  can 
unload?" 

"Plain  enough.  Now  the  Molly  Mine  stock  isn't 
on  the  market.  It  is  all  owned,  as  I  understand,  by 
Miss  Casey  and  you  three  holding  the  controlling  in- 
terest, Keith  the  rest.  It's  been  paying  dividends  from 
the  start.  Keith  will  try  to  unload." 

"He'll  have  to  do  it  on  the  quiet  or  it  'ud  have  the 
same  effect  as  if  the  news  came  out  about  the  mine," 
said  Sandy. 

"True.     He  may  try  to  sell  it  to  you." 

"Not  likely.  He  doesn't  expect  us  to  have  the 
money.  We  haven't.  I  take  it  he  can't  dump  'em  in 
a  hurry.  That's  why  he's  boardin'  the  stopes.  If  he 
don't  trail  over  here  in  a  day  or  so  I'll  shack  over  to 
Casey  Town  fo'  a  li'l'  chat.  I'd  admire  to  go  over  the 
mine.  Mebbe  we'll  all  go.  Might  even  call  a  direct- 
ors' meetin'.  Quien  sabe?  Much  obliged  to  you, 
Westlake." 

Westlake  nodded.  He  understood  that  quiet  drawl 
of  Sandy's.  If  the  li'l'  chat  came  off,  Keith  would  not 
enjoy  himself,  he  fancied. 

"The  question  is  what  move  to  make  an'  when  to 
make  it.  If  Molly  is  one  thing  she  is  game.  We've 
got  a  good  deal  out  of  the  mine  an'  it's  all  come  so  far 


302  RIMROCK  TRAIU 

from  the  sale  of  gold  to  the  mint,  I  take  it.  We  don't 
dabble  in  stocks.  We're  ahead.  If  the  mine's  gone 
bu'st  she's  done  nicely  by  us,  at  that." 

Back  of  Sandy's  talk  thoughts  formed  in  his  brain 
that  held  a  good  deal  of  comfort.  Molly  was  no 
longer  an  heiress,  if  Westlake's  news  was  true.  And 
he  did  not  doubt  it.  Molly  would  not  have  to  go  back 
East.  Her  relations  with  the  Keiths  would  be  broken. 
She  had  not  spent  all  her  share  of  the  dividends. 
Keith  held  some  portion  of  this.  Just  how  much 
Sandy  did  not  know.  He  had  not  held  Keith  to  strict 
accountings,  he  had  trusted  him  to  bank  the  funds. 
That  Molly  had  a  banking-account,  he  knew.  It  might 
mean  her  staying  west.  The  principal  used  on  the 
Three  Star  was  intact  and  would  be  turned  over  to 
her,  if  they  could  make  her  accept  it,  but  it  began  to 
look  as  if  Molly  might  remain,  all  things  considered. 

"I  figger  you're  right  about  Keith  trailin'  over  here 
to  see  if  you've  showed,"  Sandy  went  on.  "That's 
the  way  I'd  play  him.  As  you  say,  he's  got  to  git  rid 
of  his  shares  quietly  an5  he  can't  do  it  in  a  rush.  I 
don't  want  to  tell  Molly  she's  bu'sted  until  we're  plumb 
certain.  An*  Keith's  got  money  of  hers.  We  want  to 
git  that  out  of  the  pot  befo'  we  break  with  Keith. 
He'll  give  us  an  openin*  fo'  a  general  understandin', 
I  reckon.  If  he  don't  show  inside  of  a  couple  of  days 
I'll  take  a  pasear  over  to  Casey  Town  an*  have  a  liT 
chat  with  him. 

"Young  Keith  sabe  his  father's  play  ?"  asked  Sandy. 

"No."    Westlake  spoke  decidedly.    "He's  not  inter- 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  303 

ested  in  mining.  He's  on  the  trip  because  his  father 
holds  the  purse  strings.  He's  a  good  deal  of  a  cub,  at 
present.  I  mean  he  don't  show  much  inclination  to 
use  his  brains.  He's  having  a  good  time  on  easy 
money.  He  doesn't  know  the  difference  between  an 
adit  and  an  air-drill.  Doesn't  want  to.  Makes  a  show 
of  interest,  naturally,  to  stand  in  with  his  old  man,  but 
he  puts  in  a  good  deal  of  time  scooting  round  the  hills 
in  that  big  car  of  theirs, .  or  going  hunting.  I  heard 
he  was  trying  to  buck  a  poker  game,  but  Keith's  secre- 
tary heard  that  too  and  I  imagine  attended  to  it.  It 
was  not  my  province.  He's  a  likable  kid  in  many  ways 
but  he's  just  a  kid." 

"  'Tw'udn't  be  fair  to  hold  anythin'  ag'in'  him,  'count 
of  his  breedin',"  said  Sandy,  "but  colts  that  ain't  bred 
right  bear  watchin'.  Men  an'  hawsses,  there's  a  sight 
of  difference  between  thoroughbred  an'  well  bred. 
I've  known  a  heap  of  folks  mighty  well  bred  who 
didn't  have  much  pedigree.  So  long's  the  blood's 
pure,  names  don't  amount  to  shucks.  Now  tell  us 
some  about  that  South  American  berth  of  yours,  West- 
lake." 

Westlake  rather  marveled  at  the  ease  with  which 
Sandy  and  his  chums  dismissed  a  matter  that  meant 
a  material  loss  of  money  to  them,  but  he  had  seen  the 
light  in  Sandy's  eyes  and  he  knew  his  capacity  for 
action  when  the  moment  arrived.  The  four  sat  up 
late,  talking  of  mining  in  various  ways  and  places. 

"This  Westlake  hombre'll  go  a  long  ways,"  summed 
up  Sam  to  Sandy  after  Westlake  had  turned  in  and 


304  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Mormon  had  yawned  himself  off  to  bed.  "He  sure 
knows  a  heap,  he  don't  brag,  he's  on  the  square  an' 
he  ain't  afraid  of  work." 

"A  good  deal  of  a  he-man,"  assented  Sandy. 
"Stands  up  on  his  hind  laigs.  He  didn't  come  out  of 
the  same  mold  as  Keith.  Sam,  you  ain't  a  potenshul 
millionaire  any  longer,  just  plain  ranchman.  You 
can  go  to  sleep  'thout  worry  in'  how  yo're  goin'  to  spend 
yore  dividends." 

"That  so't  of  worry  won't  tuhn  my  ha'r  gray,"  re- 
torted Sam,  "though  I  wish  you'd  talk  plain  United 
States  an'  forgit  the  dikshunary.  What  I'm  worryin' 
about  is  Molly." 

"So'm  I,  Sam,"  said  Sandy.    "Good  night." 

That  Westlake  won  approval  from  Molly,  and  also 
from  Kate  Nicholson,  was  patent  before  breakfast  was 
over  the  next  morning.  A  buyer  came  out  from  Here- 
ford demanding  Sandy's  attention  and  he  stayed  at  the 
ranch  while  the  three  and  Sam  went  off  saddleback. 
Westlake  had  expressed  a  desire  to  see  the  ranch  and 
Molly  had  volunteered  to  display  her  own  renewed 
knowledge  of  it.  The  buyer  looked  at  the  Three  Star 
stock  with  expert  eyes  and  made  bids  that  were  highly 
satisfactory. 

"Better  beef,  better  prices,  that's  the  modern  slo- 
gan," he  said  at  the  noon  meal  with  Sandy  and  Mor- 
mon. "I  see  you  believe  in  it.  You  can  establish  a 
brand  for  the  Three  Star  steers,  Mr.  Bourke,  just  as 
readily  as  any  producer  of  staple  goods,  and  you  can 
command  your  own  market. 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  305 

"I  heard  some  talk  in  Hereford  this  morning  of 
trouble  at  one  ranch  not  far  from  here,"  he  went  on. 
"A  horse  ranch  run  by  a  man  named  Plimsoll.  Water- 
line  Ranch,  I  think  they  call  it.  I  have  a  commission 
from  a  man  in  Chicago  to  look  up  some  horses  for  him 
and  I  had  heard  of  Plimsoll  before,  not  over-favorably. 
I  understand  he  is  a  horse-dealer  rather  than  a  breeder. 
And  that  he  is  not  fussy  over  brands." 

"He's  got  a  big  herd,"  said  Sandy  non-committally. 
"Claims  to  round  up  slick-ears." 

"Slick-ears?" 

"Same  as  broom-tails — wild  hawsses.  What  was 
the  trouble?" 

"General  row  among  the  crowd,  far  as  I  could  make 
out.  Plimsoll  shot  at  one  of  his  men  named  Wyatt, 
I  believe,  and  started  to  run  him  off  the  ranch.  There 
were  sides  taken  and  shots  fired." 

"News  to  me,"  said  Sandy.  He  was  not  especially 
interested  in  Waterline  happenings  so  long  as  Plimsoll 
remained  set.  The  buyer  left  and  the  rest  of  the  day 
went  slowly. 

When  the  quartet  returned,  Molly  and  Westlake 
were  obviously  more  than  mere  acquaintances.  Sandy 
felt  out  of  the  running  though  Molly  held  him  in  the 
conversation.  Kate  Nicholson  unconsciously  intensi- 
fied his  mood. 

"They  make  a  wonderful  pair,  don't  they  ?"  she  said 
to  him.  "Both  Western,  full  of  life  and  mutual  inter- 
est." 

Miranda  Bailey,  driving  over,  created  a  welcome 
diversion. 


306  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I've  brought  a  telegram  out  for  you,  Mr.  West- 
lake,"  she  said.  "The  operator  phoned  us  to  see  if 
any  one  was  coming  over.  Said  you  left  word  you 
were  at  the  Three  Star.  Here  it  is.  When  you  goin' 
to  have  your  phone  put  into  the  ranch,  Sandy?" 

"Company  promised  to  finish  the  party  line  next 
month,"  answered  Sandy.  "Held  up  for  poles." 

He  answered  with  his  eyes  on  the  yellow  envelope 
that  Westlake,  with  an  apology,  was  opening.  The 
engineer  read  it  and  passed  it  to  Molly.  Sandy  saw 
her  face  glow. 

"That's  fine !"  she  exclaimed.  "But  it  means  you've 
got  to  go.  I'm  sorry  for  that." 

The  relief  that  Sandy  felt,  and  dismissed  as  selfish, 
was  marred  by  the  cordial  understanding  that  had 
sprung  up  between  the  two.  He  wondered  if  they  had 
discovered  a  real  attachment  for  each  other.  Such 
things  could  happen  in  a  flash.  His  view  was  apt  to 
be  jaundiced,  but  he  did  not  realize  that. 

"I'll  have  to  go  first  thing  to-morrow,"  said  West- 
lake.  "I'm  sorry,  too.  They've  come  up  to  my 
counter-offer,  Bourke,  and  they  want  me  to  come  on 
immediately.  It  means  a  lot  to  me.  Everything,"  he 
added,  with  a  smile  that  Molly  returned. 

"You'll  write?"  she  said.    "You  promised." 

Kate  Nicholson  looked  at  Sandy  with  arching  eye- 
brows. She  too  appeared  to  scent  romance,  to  approve 
of  it.  Miranda  broke  in. 

"I'm  sure  glad  it's  good  news,"  she  said. 

Sandy  fancied  she  was  about  to  ask  about  Keith.    He 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  307 

knew  her  curiosity  to  be  lively,  though  he  thought  her 
tact  would  appreciate  the  situation  with  regard  to 
Molly.  "I've  got  some  of  my  own,"  she  continued. 
'There's  been  trouble  out  to  Jim  PlimsoH's.  He  shot 
at  Wyatt  or  Wyatt  at  him,  I  don't  know  which  rightly. 
But  there  was  sides  taken  an'  a  gen'ral  rumpus.  Sev- 
eral of  his  men  quit  or  was  run  off  the  place.  It's  been 
a  reg'lar  scandal.  Called  the  place  the  Waterline. 
Whiskyline  w'ud  have  suited  it  better,  I  reckon. 
PlimsoH's  aimin'  to  sell  out,  Ed  heard.  It'll  be  a 
good  riddance." 

"Whoever  buys  the  stock  is  takin*  a  long  chance," 
said  Mormon.  "Aimin'  to  sell,  is  he  ?" 

"I'll  have  a  telegram   fo'  you  to  take  back,   Mi- 
.  randy,"  said  Sandy.    "You  sendin'  one,  Westlake?" 

"If  you'll  take  it,  Miss  Bailey." 

"Glad  to." 

Westlake  and  Molly  were  both  standing.  They 
moved  toward  the  door  and  out  to  the  moonlit  veranda 
together. 

"They  seem  to  hit  it  off  well,  that  pair/'  said  Mi- 
randa. 

Kate  Nicholson  murmured  something  about  the 
kitchen  and  left  the  room  to  attend  to  some  refresh- 
ments. She  had  gradually  taken  over  supervision  of 
Pedro  and  the  results  had  justified  Molly's  praise  of 
her  qualifications  as  a  housekeeper. 

"Now  tell  me  about  Keith,"  demanded  Miranda. 
"What's  he  been  up  to?" 

Sandy  told  her. 


308  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I  ain't  a  mite  surprised.  That  Westlake  acts  white. 
I  liked  him  from  the  start.  What  are  you  goin'  to  do 
about  Molly?  You  ain't  told  her  yet?" 

"No  use  spoilin'  her  holiday  befo'  we  have  to,"  said 
Sandy.  "I'm  goin'  to  talk  with  Keith  first." 

"It'll  be  a  good  thing  in  a  way,  mebbe,"  said  Mi- 
randa. "Molly  belongs  out  west  where  she  was  born 
an'  brought  up.  I  hope  she  stays,"  she  added  with  a 
shrewd  glance  at  Sandy  that  startled  him  into  a  suspic- 
ion that  Miranda  had  guessed  his  secret. 

Kate  Nicholson  returned  and  the  talk  changed. 
Westlake  and  Molly  remained  outside  until  the  food 
was  served.  Then  there  was  music.  Through  the 
evening  the  pair  talked  together,  confidentially,  apart 
from  the  rest.  Miranda  departed  at  last  with  the  tele- 
grams. Molly  lingered  as  good  nights  were  said. 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  you,  Sandy,"  she  said. 
"It's  private,  for  the  present,"  she  added  with  a  glance 
toward  Westlake. 

Sandy  sat  down  by  the  fire  with  a  sinking  qualm. 
Molly  perched  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  silent 
for  a  moment  or  two. 

"It's  a  love  story,  Sandy,"  she  said  presently. 

"Westlake?" 

"Yes.  He  wanted  me  to  tell  you  before  he  went. 
He's  very  fond  of  you,  Sandy." 

"Is  he?"  Sandy  spoke  slowly,  rousing  himself  with 
an  effort.  "I  think  he's  a  fine  chap.  I  sure  wish  him 
all  the  luck  in  the  world."  He  fancied  his  voice 
sounded  flat. 


WESTLAKE  BRINGS  NEWS  309 

"I  suppose  you  wondered  why  we  were  s-o  chummy 
all  the  evening?'" 

"Yes.  I  wondered  a  KT  about  that."  Sandy  did 
not  look  at  her,  but  gazed  into  the  dying  fire.  He 
saw  himself  sitting  there,  lonely,  woman-shy  once 
more,  through  the  long  stretch  of  years,  with  a  letter 
coming  once  in  a  while  from  far-off  places  telling  of  a 
happiness  that  he  had  hoped  for  and  yet  had  known 
could  not  be  for  him;  Sandy  Bourke,  cow-puncher, 
two-gun  man,  rancher,  growing  old. 

"I  was  the  first  girl  he  had  seen  for  a  long  while, 
you  see/'  Molly  was  saying.  "And  he  had  to  talk 
it  over  with  some  one.  He  told  me  about  it  first  this 
morning  and  then  the  telegram  came." 

"Talkin'  about  what?" 

"His  sweetheart.  Now  he  can  marry  her  with  this 
opportunity.  She  may  sail  with  him.  Isn't  it  fine? 
He  showed  me  her  picture." 

"It's  the  best  news  I've  heard  fo'  a  long  time," 
answered  Sandy  soberly. 

"I'm  sleepy,"  said  Molly.  "Good  night,  Sandy, 
dear." 

She  put  her  lips  to  his  tanned  cheek  and  left  him  in 
a  maze.  The  dying  fire  leaped  up  and  the  room  light- 
ened. It  died  down  again,  but  Sandy  sat  there,  smok- 
ing cigarette  after  cigarette. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DEHORNED 

MIRANDA  BAILEY  had  offered  to  come  in  for 
Westlake  with  her  car,  but  the  train  went  early 
and  he  had  refused.  Molly  drove  him  in  the  buck- 
board,  his  grips  stowed  behind,  and  Sandy  saw  them 
go  with  the  old  light  back  in  his  eyes.  He  gave  West- 
lake  a  grip  of  the  hand  that  made  him  wince. 

"Bring  her  out  to  the  Three  Star  sometime,"  he  told 
him.  "Mind  if  I  tell  Sam  and  Mormon,  Westlake? 
They'll  sure  be  tickled." 

"I'd  like  them  to  know.  And  we'll  come,  when  we 
can.  Maybe  we'll  find  you  coupled  by  that  time, 
Sandy.  All  three  of  you.  And  I  hope  we'll  find  Molly 
here." 

"I  hope  so."  Sandy  fancied  the  last  sentence  more 
than  casual. 

"You  can  rely  upon  my  information  being  correct," 
were  Westlake's  last  words,  spoken  aside  before  he 
climbed  into  the  buckboard  and  Molly  flirted  the  reins 
over  the  backs  of  the  team  shooting  off  at  top  speed. 

Sandy's  mood  had  changed.  He  was  in  high  fettle 
as  he  watched  them  go.  The  rider  who  was  breaking 
horses  for  the  Three  Star  surrendered  his  job  that 
morning  to  the  "old  man." 

310 


DEHORNED  311 

Molly  came  back  a  little  before  noon,  her  eyes  wide 
with  excitement. 

"Mr.  Keith's  in  town,"  she  said.  "With  Donald 
and  his  secretary,  Mr.  Blake.  He  asked  me  if  Mr. 
Westlake  had  been  here  and  he  seemed  annoyed  when 
I  told  him  I  had  just  seen  him  off  on  the  train:  They 
all  came  from  Casey  Town  in  the  big  car.  Has  there 
been  any  trouble  between  Mr.  Keith  and  Mr.  West- 
lake?" 

"The  South  American  offer  is  a  better  chance  than 
Casey  Town,"  answered  Sandy.  "Mr.  Keith  may 
have  been  annoyed  about  that.  His  boy's  along,  you 
say?  Is  he  comin'  oveh  to  the  ranch?" 

"Yes.  He  wanted  to  come  with  me,  to  drive  me 
out  in  the  car,  but  I  had  the  buckboard  and  I'd  rather 
drive  horses  any  day.  So  he'll  be  out  a  little  later  to 
take  up  your  invitation.  Mr.  Keith  has  some  business 
in  Hereford.  He  and  Mr.  Blake  will  stay  on  their 
private  car.  He  told  me  to  tell  you  he  would  be  out 
to-morrow  to  see  you.  Oh,  here's  a  telegram  for  you." 

"Thanks."  Sandy  tucked  the  envelope  in  his  pocket. 
"Hop  out,  Molly,  an*  I'll  put  up  the  team." 

"I'll  help  you.  I  haven't  forgotten  how  to  unhitch." 
Her  nimble  fingers  worked  as  fast  as  Sandy's  with 
buckles,  coiling  traces  and  looping  reins.  She  led  the 
team  off  to  the  drinking  trough  and  fed  each  an  apple, 
with  Sandy  looking  at  her,  registering  the  picture  that 
made  such  strong  appeal. 

"Coin'  to  take  Donald  Keith  out  fo'  a  real  ride  on  a 
real  hawss?"  he  asked  her. 


312  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Yes.  To-morrow.  He's  keen  to  go.  You'll  come. 
And  Sam  and  Kate?" 

"I've  got  a  hunch  I'm  goin'  to  be  busy  ter-morrer. 
Keith's  comin',  fo'  one  thing.'' 

"I  forgot.  I  wish  you  could  come."  The  passing 
shadow  on  her  face  was  sunshine  to  Sandy.  Molly 
went  into  the  house  and  he  opened  the  telegram.  It 
was  from  Brandon,  as  he  expected. 

Thanks.  Coming  immediately.  Was  starting  anyway. 
That  trap  worked.  May  need  horses  for  eight.  Will 
you  arrange? 

BRANDON, 

"It  sure  looks  like  a  busy  day  ter-morrer,"  Sandy 
said  half  aloud.  "Keith  and  Brandon — which  means 
roundin'  up  Jim  Plimsoll.  Sam  don't  get  to  any 
picnic,  either.  He'll  have  to  'tend  to  the  hawsses." 

The  Keith  touring  car  arrived  in  mid-afternoon 
with  young  Keith  at  the  wheel,  the  chauffeur  beside 
him,  grips  in  the  tonneau.  Donald  Keith  jumped  out, 
affable,  a  little  inclined  to  condescension  at  first  toward 
everything  connected  with  the  ranch,  including  Kate 
Nicholson.  The  imperturbable  driver  left  with  the 
car.  Young  Keith's  snobbery  wore  off  as  he  inspected 
the  corrals  and  the  stock  with  eager  interest  and  the 
riders  with  a  certain  measure  of  awe,  which  he  trans- 
ferred to  Sandy  on  learning  that  he  had  broken  two 
colts  that  morning. 

"If  they're  broken,  I  must  be  all  apart,"  he  said, 
watching  them  plunge  wildly  about  the  corral  at  the 


DEHORNED  3*3 

sight  of  visitors.  "I'd  hate  to  try  to  ride  one  of  them 
in  Central  Park.  If  I  could  stick  on  I'd  be  pinched 
for  endangering  the  public.  Wish  I  could  have  seen 
you  bu'st  them." 

"There'll  be  mo'  of  it  befo'  you  leave,"  said  Sandy. 
His  mood  of  the  morning  held.  His  generosity  of 
feeling  toward  Keith's  boy  did  not  lessen  when  he  saw 
how  much  the  elder  of  the  two  Molly  appeared.  The 
youngster  was  spoiled,  probably  selfish,  but  he  was 
distinctly  likable. 

"Know  what  time  yore  father  expects  to  be  out?" 
Sandy  asked  him,  later. 

"He  didn't  say.  He's  got  some  business  to  attend 
to.  Some  time  in  the  forenoon,  I  imagine.  I  know 
he's  figuring  on  getting  back  to  Casey  Town  to-night. 
Molly,  you  haven't  taken  me  out  to  see  your  fathers 
grave.  Won't  you  ?  You  promised  to."  Sandy  liked 
the  lad  for  that.  But  it  did  not  ameliorate  his  attitude 
toward  the  visit  of  Keith  Senior. 

That  worthy  arrived  after  lunch  had  been  cleared 
the  next  day.  Kate  Nicholson  busied  herself  to  wait 
deferentially  upon  him  and  his  secretary,  the  fox- 
faced  Blake.  Keith  was  brisk  and  brusk,  breathing 
prosperity. 

"I  was  detained  in  Hereford,  Bourke,"  he  said.  "I 
haven't  much  time  for  anything  but  a  flying  visit.  I 
promised  Mrs.  Keith  I'd  come  over  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, and  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Donald's  out  with 
Molly,  you  say.  I'll  leave  him  with  you  on  your  invi- 
tation and  pick  him  up  when  we  go  back  east.  That 


314  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

will  be  in  about  a  week.  Sooner  than  I  expected.  I'd 
like  to  spare  a  day  to  look  over  the  ranch.  I've  heard 
fine  things  about  it." 

"Thanks,"  drawled  Sandy  laconically.  "Glad  to 
have  a  talk  with  you.  Sam,  Mr.  Blake  might  like  to 
see  the  hawsses  gentled  that  came  up  this  mo'nin'." 

Keith  raised  his  eyebrows  but  said  nothing.  Leav- 
ing Blake,  Sandy  led  Keith  to  his  office,  rolled  a 
cigarette,  offered  a  chair  to  his  visitor  and  smoked, 
waiting  for  the  latter  to  open  the  talk. 

"There  are  some  papers  for  you  to  examine,  as 
Molly's  guardian,"  said  Keith.  "But  Blake  has  them." 

"We'll  take  them  up  later.    Anythin'  else?" 

Keith  looked  sharply  at  Sandy's  face.  There  was  a 
certain  grimness  to  it  that  reminded  the  promoter  of 
the  first  time  he  had  seen  it.  His  own  changed  to  a 
mask,  expressionless,  save  for  his  eyes,  holding  suspi- 
cion that  changed  to  aggressiveness.  But  the  latter  did 
not  show  in  his  voice  which  was  smooth  and  ingratiat- 
ing. 

"Nothing  of  great  importance.  I  hear  Westlake 
has  been  over  here,  Bourke.  We  had  a  misunderstand- 
ing. Sorry  to  lose  him,  since  you  recommended  him." 

"He  figgers  he  has  a  better  job,"  answered  Sandy. 

"I'm  glad  he  thinks  so.  He  is  young  and  lacks  expe- 
rience. His  opinion  clashed  with  that  of  my  engineer- 
in-charge,  an  expert  of  high  standing.  Westlake  was 
hot-headed  and  would  not  brook  being  overruled. 
There  is  no  doubt  but  that  he  was  mistaken.  He  is  a 
valuable  man,  under  a  superior,  but  he  is  intolerant." 


DEHORNED  315 

"He  didn't  strike  me  that  way,"  said  Sandy.  "Me, 
I  set  a  good  deal  on  his  opinion." 

"I  didn't  imagine  you  knew  much  about  mining, 
Bourke."  Keith  looked  at  his  watch.  "I'll  really  have 
to  be  going  as  soon  as  you  have  looked  over  those 
papers.  Hadn't  we  better  call  Blake?" 

Sandy  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  saw  Miranda 
Bailey's  flivver  halting  by  the  big  car,  Mormon  walk- 
ing toward  her,  and  wondered  what  had  brought  her 
over.  So  far  he  had  not  got  the  opening  he  wanted, 
unless  he  took  up  defense  of  Westlake  more  forcibly 
to  introduce  the  matter.  He  was  inclined  to  suggest 
a  trip  for  himself  to  Casey  Town  to  inspect  the  mine 
in  company  with  Keith  that  night,  but  the  coming  of 
Brandon  hampered  him.  He  wanted  to  be  on  hand 
for  that.  Then  he  saw  Mormon  leave  Miranda  and 
come  toward  the  office,  bowling  along  at  top  speed. 

"Excuse  me  a  minute,  Keith,"  he  said.  "My  part- 
ner wants  to  see  me." 

Keith's  face  wore  a  scowl  as  Sandy  stepped  outside. 
His  conscience  was  not  entirely  clear  and  he  did  not 
like  the  general  atmosphere  of  the  office.  He  scented 
antagonism  in  this  rancher  who  called  him  Keith  with- 
out the  prefix.  It  was  all  right  for  him  to  omit  it,  but 
.  .  .  He  took  out  a  cigar,  bit  off  the  end  savagely 
and  lit  it. 

"Mirandy  wants  to  see  you,"  panted  Mormon. 
"She's  found  out  somethin'  about  Keith  that  sure 
shows  his  play.  He's  been  discardin' !" 

The  Keith  chauffeur  had  wandered  off  to  the  cor- 


316  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

rals  where  Sam  was  showing  Blake  around.  Miranda 
handed  Sandy  a  long  envelope. 

"Hen  Collins  had  an  accident  last  night,"  she 
said.  "Blew  a  tire  on  the  bridge  by  our  place  an' 
smashed  through  the  railin'.  Bu'sted  a  rib  or  two  an' 
was  knocked  out.  We  took  him  in.  I'm  sorry  for 
Hen  but  it  sure  was  a  lucky  accident.  You  see,  Keith 
told  him  to  keep  quiet  but  Hen  was  grateful  to  Ed  fo' 
takin'  him  in  an'  puttin'  him  to  bed  an'  sendin'  fo' 
the  doctor.  Don't  open  that  envellup,  that  Keith 
weasel  might  be  lookin'.  I  reckon  you'll  want  to 
spring  it  on  him  sudden." 

"Sure,"  said  Sandy.     "Spring  what?" 

"I'm  flustered,"  admitted  Miranda.  "I  usually  talk 
straight  Now  I'll  start  to  the  beginnin'.  When 
Keith  arrived  on  this  trip  he  held  quite  a  reception  in 
his  private  car.  Ed  was  there  with  the  rest.  He 
invited  them  up  fo'  cigars.  Talked  big  about  Casey 
Town  an'  gen'ally  patted  himself  on  the  back.  Said 
it  was  too  bad  all  the  stock  of  the  Molly  wasn't  held  in 
locally,  but  of  co'se  the  pore  promoter  had  to  have 
somethin'  fo'  his  money.  He  was  real  affable.  Ben 
Creel  asked  him  if  he  didn't  want  ta  sell  some  of  his 
Molly  stock  an'  they  all  laffed. 

"This  time,  when  he  come  back  yesterday,  he  brings 
up  the  subject  ag'in.  He,  an'  that  secretary  of  his  who 
looks  like  a  coyote.  I  don't  know  how  many  he  saw 
or  jest  what  he  said,  but  this  is  what  he  told  Hen. 
After  he'd  got  Hen  to  lead  up  to  it,  mind  you.  That 
Casey  Town  was  boomin'  big  an'  that  his  own  holdin's 


DEHORNED  317 

was  nettin'  him  a  heap.  That  he  liked  Hen  fine  an* 
had  picked  him  out  as  a  representative  citizen.  With 
a  lot  mo'  slush,  the  upshot  of  which  was  that  he  lets 
him  have  a  hundred  shares  of  the  Molly  Mine  at  par. 
Hen  was  to  say  nothin'  about  it  because,  says  Keith, 
if  it  got  out  he  was  sellin'  stock,  it  would  send  down 
the  price  of  the  shares  an'  hurt  Casey  Town  in  general, 
Hereford  some,  an'  you-all  at  the  Three  Star  in  par- 
tickler.  I  reckon  he  was  plausible  enough.  Hen  was 
sure  tickled.  He  w'udn't  have  said  a  word  about  it 
on'y  Ed  picks  these  shares  up  out  of  the  bed  of  the 
crick  an'  give  them  to  Hen  afteh  he'd  been  fixed  up. 

"Ed  went  nosin'  around  Hereford  this  mo'nin'.  He 
got  eight  men — their  names  is  inside  the  envelope — 
Creel  one  of  'em — to  admit  they'd  bought  some  shares. 
Mighty  glad  they  was  to  have  'em.  Ed  didn't  tell  'em 
anything  different,  but  he  come  scootin'  home  at  noon 
an'  I  borrowed  Hen's  certificut,  seein'  he  was  asleep. 
An'  here  it  is." 

"Mirandy,"  said  Sandy,  "I'll  let  Mormon  tell  you 
what  we  all  think  of  you.  You've  sure  dealt  me  an 
ace.  Mormon,  help  Sam  ride  herd  on  the  secretary. 
I'll  be  callin'  you  in  after  a  bit.  You'll  stay,  Mirandy  ?" 

"I'll  go  visit  with  Kate  Nicholson.  I'm  beginnin' 
to  like  her  real  well.  Molly  away?" 

Sandy  left  Mormon  to  tell  her  and  returned  to  the 
office.  Keith  eyed  the  envelope. 

"Blake  coming?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet.  When  do  we  get  another  dividend  from 
the  Molly,  Keith?" 


318  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Keith  laughed. 

"You're  as  bad  as  all  the  others,"  he  said.  "Sell  a 
man  stock,  give  him  a  dividend  and  he's  like  a  girl 
eating  candy.  You  had  one  just  fourteen  weeks  ago." 

Sandy  nodded. 

"I  was  askin'  you  about  the  next"  he  said,  his  voice 
still  drawling  but  with  a  finer  edge  to  it. 

"Needing  some  ready  money?" 

"How  about  the  dividend?" 

"Why,  that  depends  upon  the  output."  Keith's 
voice  purred  but  his  eyes  had  narrowed.  He  watched 
Sandy  like  a  card  player  who  begins  to  think  his  op- 
ponent superior  to  first  impressions.  "The  output  has 
been  big.  The  Molly  has  been  a  bonanza,  so  far.  I 
do  not  think  it  wise  always  to  pay  dividends  accord- 
ing to  the  immediate  production,  however.  It  is  bet- 
ter, as  a  rule,  to  average  it,  generally  to  develop  the 
mine  as  a  whole  rather  than  work  the  first  rich  veins." 

"That  why  you  boarded  up  the  stopes?" 

Keith's  face  grew  dark.  The  veins  twitched  at  his 
temples. 

"Look  here,  Burke,"  he  blustered.  "You've  been 
listening  to  some  fool  talk  from  that  cub,  Westlake. 
I  know  my  business.  You've  got  some  stock  in  the 
mine,  twenty- five  per  cent.  I've  put  money  and  brains 
into  it  and  I've  got  forty-nine  per  cent.  Molly.  .  ." 

"If  you  had  fo'ty-nine  per  cent.  I  wouldn't  be  wor- 
ryin'  so  much." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"I  took  you  fo'  a  betteh  gambler  than  to  git  mad," 


DEHORNED  319 

said  Sandy.  'Til  jest  ask  you  a  question  on  behalf 
of  myse'f  an'  partners'  twenty-five  per  cent.,  an'  Mol- 
ly's twenty-six,  me  bein'  her  guardian.  Plump  an' 
plain,  is  the  Molly  pinched  out  ?" 

Keith  hesitated,  struggled  to  control  himself. 

"Save  me  a  trip  over  to  Casey  Town,  mebbe," 
Sandy  added. 

"I  got  mad  just  now,  Bourke,  because  of  the  inter- 
ference of  a  man  I  fired  for  lack  of  common  sense, 
experience  and  recognition  of  his  superiors.  West- 
lake  is  a  hot-head  and  I  suppose  he  has  some  idea  of 
trying  to  get  even  with  me  by  belittling  me  in  your 
eyes  and  running  down  my  management.  I  think  I 
have  shown  my  interests  allied  with  yours.  Mrs. 
Keith  and  I." 

"She  don't  come  into  this.  You  didn't  answer  my 
question,  Keith.  How  about  it?" 

"It's  a  damned  falsehood." 

"Then  why  are  you  sellin'  your  stock  ?" 

The  words  came  like  bullets  as  Sandy  whipped  the 
certificate  out  of  the  envelope  and  slapped  it  smartly 
on  the  desk.  Keith  whitened,  flushed  again,  recov- 
ered himself. 

"If  I  was  not  friendly  to  you,  Bourke,  I  should  take 
that  as  a  direct  insult.  I  can  understand  that  you  be- 
lieve in  Westlake  and  take  stock  in  what  he  told  you. 
But  he  is  a  discharged  employee.  He  has  every  rea- 
son .  .  ." 

Sandy  held  up  his  hand. 

"He's  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said.    "Keith,  I  may; 


320  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

not  know  the  minin'  game — as  you  play  it.  In  some 
ways  it's  gamblin',  like  playin'  poker.  I've  played 
that  a  heap.  I  can  tell  pritty  well  when  a  man's 
bluffin'.  Mebbe  you're  losin'  some  of  yore  nerve 
lately.  You  show  it  in  yore  face.  Yore  eyes  flick- 
ered when  you  said  it  was  a  'damned  falsehood.'  I 
don't  hanker  to  insult  a  man  but — I  don't  believe  you. 
An'  here's  this  stock  you  sold.  Fve  got  the  names 
of  more  you  sold  it  to.  Why  ?" 

"A  man  in  my  position,"  said  Keith  slowly,  "swings 
many  big  deals  and  sometimes  he  is  pushed  for  ready 
money." 

"I  reckon  that's  the  reason,"  said  Sandy  dryly. 
"Well,  you've  got  to  git  it  some  other  way.  You've 
got  to  buy  these  stocks  back,  Keith.  I  control  the  big 
end  of  the  stock  in  the  Molly.  If  I  have  to  go  to  the 
bother  of  gittin'  an  expert  of  my  own,  an'  goin'  to 
Casey  Town  to  look  back  of  those  stopes,  you're  goin' 
to  be  sorry  fo'  it." 

"I  have  a  right  to  sell  my  stock." 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  exercise  that  right,  Keith.  You 
may  make  a  business  sellin'  chances  to  folks  who  like 
to  buy  'em,  but  you  can't  sell  Herefo'd  folks  paper 
when  they  think  they're  buyin'  gold.  I  won't  bunco 
my  neighbors  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  'low  you  to  do  it  with 
any  proposition  I'm  interested  in.  You'll  give  me  the 
money  you  got  fo'  the  shares  with  a  list  of  the  men  you 
sold  'em  to  an'  I'll  tell  'em  the  Molly  is  pinched  out — 
as  it  is." 

"You  must  be  crazy,  man!    They  wouldn't  believe 


DEHORNED  321 

you.  If  you  went  round  with  a  statement  like  that 
you'd  lose  every  cent  of  your  own  and  your  ward's. 
You  have  no  right  ..." 

"Trouble  is  with  you,  you  don't  know  the  meanin' 
of  that  last  word,"  said  Sandy.  "Right  is  jest  what  I 
aim  to  do.  We'll  put  it  up  to  Molly  an'  you'll  see 
where  she  stands.  We  don't  do  business  out  west  the 
way  you  do.  We  don't  rob  our  friends  or  even  try 
an'  run  a  razoo  on  strangehs.  I  reckon  the  folks'll 
believe  me.  If  they  don't  I'll  give  'em  stock  of  ours, 
share  fo'  share,  to  convince  'em  until  it's  known  the 
Molly  has  flivvered." 

"You'll  ruin  the  whole  camp." 

"Not  to  my  mind.  They'll  git  out  what  gold's  left. 
The  Molly'll  shut  down.  I'll  git  you  to  give  me  a 
statement  'long  with  the  money  an'  the  list  fo'  me  to 
check  up,  say  in*  you've  jest  had  news  the  vein  has 
petered  out  sudden — like  it  has.  That's  lettin'  you 
down  easy.  They'll  think  you  an  honorable  man 
'stead  of  a  bunco-steerer.  I'm  doin'  this  'count  of  the 
fact  you  folks  have  looked  out  fo'  Molly.  An'  I'm 
tellin'  you,  Keith,  that,  if  Herefo'd  folks  knew  you'd 
deliberately  sold  them  rotten  stock,  you  an'  yore  pri- 
vate car  might  suffer  consid'rable  damage  befo'  you 
got  away.  Out  west  folks  still  git  riled  over  trick 
plays  an'  holdouts,  hawss-stealin'  an'  otheh  deals  that 
ain't  square.  I'd  sure  advise  you  to  come  across." 

Keith  looked  into  the  face  of  Sandy  and,  briefly, 
into  his  eyes,  hard  as  steel.  He  made  one  more  at- 
tempt. 


322  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"Let's  talk  common  sense,  Bourke.  You're  quixo- 
tic. The  Molly  is  capitalized  for  a  quarter  of  a  million 
dollars.  The  stock  can  be  sold  at  par  if  it's  done 
quietly.  I  can  dispose  of  it  for  you.  There  is  no  cer- 
tainty that  the  mine  will  not  produce  richly  when  we 
strike  through  the  second  level  of  porphyry.  There 
are  plenty  of  people  willing  to  buy  shares  on  that 
chance  after  the  showing  already  made.  I  tried  to  say 
just  now  that  you  have  no  right  to  throw  away  your 
ward's  money,  and  you  are  a  fool  to  throw  away  your 
own.  People  buy  stock  as  a  gamble." 

"No  sense  in  you  talkin'  any  mo*  that  way,  Keith. 
Mebbe  you  sell  paper  to  folks  who  gamble  on  it,  an' 
on  what  you  tell  'em  about  the  chances,  makin'  yore 
story  gold-colored.  Folks  may  like  to  git  somethin' 
fo'  nex'  to  nothin',  but  I  won't  sell  'em  nothin'  fo' 
somethin',  neitheh  will  my  partners,  neitheh  will  Molly 
Casey.  She's  a  western  gel.  Above  all,  I  won't  gold- 
brick  my  friends.  I  know  the  mine  is  petered  out 
You  won't  call  my  play  about  havin'  an  expert  examine 
it,  which  same  is  no  bluff.  I  believe  in  Westlake's 
report.  We've  had  our  share  of  the  gold  in  it  an',  we 
won't  sell  the  dirt.  No  mo'  w'ud  Pat  Casey,  lyin'  out 
there  by  the  spring,  if  he  was  alive." 

"Suppose  I  refuse?"  asked  Keith,  his  square  face 
obstinate.  "I've  done  nothing  outside  the  law." 

"To  hell  with  that  kind  of  law!  We  make  laws  of 
our  own  out  here  once  in  a  while.  Justice  is  what  we 
look  fo',  not  law.  We  aim  to  trail  straight.  I  reckon 
you'll  come  through.  Fo'  one  thing  I  expect  to  have 
yore  boy  visit  with  us  till  you  do." 


DEHORNED  323 

The  promoter's  face  twisted  uglily  and  he  lost  con- 
trol of  himself. 

"Kidnapping?  A  western  method  of  justice.  Not 
the  first  time  you've  been  mixed  up  in  it  either,  from 
what  I  hear.  You  don't  dare  .  .  ." 

Keith  stopped  abruptly.  Sandy  had  not  moved,  but 
his  eyes,  from  resembling  orbs  of  chilled  steel,  seemed 
suddenly  to  throw  off  the  blaze  and  heat  of  the  molten 
metal. 

"Fo'  a  promoter  yo're  a  mighty  pore  judge  of  men," 
he  said.  "I'm  warnin'  you  not  to  ride  any  further 
along  that  trail.  Yore  son  can  stay  here,  or  we  can 
tell  the  Herefo'd  folk  what  you've  tried  to  hand  to 
them.  Yo're  apt  to  look  like  a  buzzard  that's  fallen 
into  a  tar  barrel  after  they  git  through  with  you,  Keith. 
Trouble  with  you  is  that  you've  been  bullin'  the  market 
an'  havin'  it  yore  own  way  too  long.  Now  you  see  a 
b'ar  on  the  horizon,  you  don't  like  the  view. 

"When  we  bring  up  stock  fo'  shipment  we  some- 
times have  trouble  with  the  longhorns.  We've  got  a 
dehornin'  machine  fo'  them.  That's  yore  trubble,  so 
fur  as  this  locality  is  concerned.  You  need  dehornin'. 
I  can  find  out  who  you  sold  stock  to  easy  enough,  but 
I  don't  care  to  waste  the  time.  An'  if  I  do  there'll  be 
more  publicity  about  it  than  you'd  care  fo'.  Might 
even  git  back  to  New  Yo'k.  I'm  givin'  you  the  easy 
end  of  it,  Keith,  'count  of  Molly.  You  an'  me  can 
ride  into  town  in  yore  car  an'  clean  this  all  up  befo' 
the  bank  closes.  We'll  leave  the  money  with  Creel  of 
the  Herefo'd  National.  Then  you  can  come  back  an' 
git  yore  boy." 


324  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I  don't  remember  the  names.  Blake  took  the  rec* 
ord  of  them/'  said  Keith  sullenly. 

"Then  we'll  have  him  in." 

Sandy  went  to  the  door  and  hailed  Sam  and  Mor- 
mon. They  came  to  the  office  escorting  Blake,  whose 
fox-face  moved  from  side  to  side  with  furtive  eyes  as 
if  he  smelled  a  trap. 

"We  want  the  list  of  the  folks  you  unloaded  Molly 
stock  to,"  said  Sandy. 

Blake  looked  at  his  employer  who  sat  glowering  at 
his  cigar  end,  licked  his  lips  and  said  nothing. 

"Speak  up,"  said  Sandy. 

"There's  a  fine  patch  of  prickly  pear  handy/'  sug- 
gested Sam.  "Fine  fo'  restorin'  the  voice.  Last  time 
we  chucked  a  tenderfoot  in  there  they  had  to  peel  the 
shirt  off  of  him  in  strips."  He  took  the  secretary  by 
one  elbow,  Mormon  by  the  other,  both  grinning  be- 
hind his  back  as  he  shook  with  a  sudden  palsy  in  the 
belief  that  they  meant  their  threat. 

"Tell  him,  you  damned  fool !"  grunted  Keith. 

"The  stubs  are  in  the  car  at  Hereford  depot,"  said 
Blake.  "In  the  safe." 

"Money  there  too?  I  suppose  you  cashed  the 
checks?" 

"I  deposited  them  to  my  own  account,"  said  Keith. 
"Come  on,  let's  get  this  over  with  since  you  are 
determined  to  throw  away  your  own  and  your  part- 
ners' good  money,  to  say  nothing  of  the  girl's.  She 
could  bring  suit  against  you,  Bourke,  with  a  good 
chance  of  winning." 


DEHORNED  325 

He  glanced  hopefully  at  Mormon  and  Sam.  They 
kept  on  grinning. 

"Round  up  that  chauffeur,  Sam,  will  you?"  asked 
Sandy.  "Tell  him  we're  starin'  fo'  Hereford  right  off. 
You  an'  me  can  go  over  those  accounts  of  Molly's 
same  time  we  attend  to  the  other  business,  Keith." 

They  went  outside,  Blake  looking  anxious  and  a 
trifle  bewildered,  Keith  throwing  away  his  cigar  and 
lighting  a  new  one,  his  face  sullen  with  the  rage  he 
dammed.  Kate  Nicholson  and  Miranda  Bailey  were 
on  the  ranch-house  veranda. 

"Could  I  ask  you  to  mail  these  letters,  Mr.  Keith  ? 
Two  of  Molly's  and  one  of  my  own."  Kate  Nicholson 
advanced  toward  him,  the  letters  in  hand.  With  a 
spurt  of  fury  Keith  snatched  at  the  letters  and  threw 
them  on  the  ground. 

"To  hell  with  you !"  he  shouted,  his  face  empurpled. 
"You're  fired!"  All  of  his  polish  stripped  from  him 
like  peeling  veneer,  he  appeared  merely  a  coarse  bully. 

Sam  came  up  the  veranda  in  two  jumps  and  a  final 
leap  that  left  him  with  his  hands  entwined  in  Keith's 
coat  collar.  He  whirled  that  astounded  person  half 
around  and  slammed  him  up  against  the  wall  of  the 
ranch-house,  rumpled,  gasping,  with  trembling  hands 
that  lifted  before  the  menace  of  Sam's  gun. 

"I  oughter  shoot  the  tongue  out  of  you  befo'  I  put 
a  slug  through  yore  head,"  said  Sam,  standing  in  front 
of  the  promoter,  tense  as  a  jaguar  couched  for  a  spring, 
his  eyes  glittering,  his  voice  packed  with  venom.  "You 
git  down  on  yo'  knes,  you  ring-tailed  skunk,  an'  apolo- 


326  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

gize  to  this  lady.  Crook  yo'  knees,  you  stinkin'  pole- 
cat, an'  crawl.  I'll  make  you  lick  her  shoes.  Down 
with  you  or  I'll  send  you  straight  to  judgment!" 

"No,  Sam,  Mr.  Manning — it  isn't  necessary,"  pro- 
tested Kate  Nicholson.  "Please  .  .  ." 

Sam  looked  at  her  cold-eyed. 

"This  is  my  party,"  he  said.  "It'll  do  him  good. 
I'll  let  him  off  lickin'  yo'  shoes,  he  might  spile  the 
leather.  But  he'll  git  them  letters  he  chucked  away,  git 
'em  on  all-fours,  like  the  sneakin',  slinkin',  double- 
crossin'  coyote  he  is.  Crook  yo'  knees  first  an*  apolo- 
gize !  I'll  learn  you  a  lesson  right  here  an'  now.  You 
stay  right  where  you  are,  Kate.  Let  him  come  to  you." 

Sam  fired  a  shot  and  the  promoter  jumped  galvanic- 
ally  as  the  bullet  tore  through  the  planking  of  the 
ranch -house  between  his  trembling  knees. 

"I  regret,  Miss  Nicholson,"  he  commenced  husk- 
ily, "that  I  let  my  temper  get  the  better  of  me.  I  was 
greatly  upset.  In  the  matter  of  your  services  I  was 
— er — doubtless  hasty.  It  can  be  arranged." 

He  shrank  at  the  tap  of  Sam's  gun  on  his  shoulder, 
wilting  to  his  knees. 

"She  w'udn't  work  fo'  you  fo'  the  time  it  takes  a 
rabbit  to  dodge  a  rattler,"  said  Sam.  "She  never  did 
work  fo'  you.  It  was  Molly's  money  paid  her.  Kate's 

goin'  to  stay  right  here  as  long  as  she  chooses  an'  I 

» 

Catching  Kate  Nicholson's  gaze,  the  admiring  look 
of  a  woman  who  has  never  before  been  championed, 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  had  blurted  out  her 


DEHORNED 

Giristian  name  and  disclosed  the  secret  of  that  touch 
of  intimacy  between  them,  Sam  grew  crimson  through 
his  tan.  Kate  Nicholson's  face  was  rosy;  both  were 
embarrassed. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Manning,"  she  said.  "Please  let 
him  get  up,  and  put  away  your  pistol." 

"Git  up,"  said  Sam,  "an'  go  pick  up  them  letters." 

Keith,  humiliated  before  his  secretary  and  his  chauf- 
feur, the  latter  gazing  wooden-faced  but  making  no 
attempt  at  interference,  gathered  up  the  envelopes  and 
presented  them,  with  a  bow,  to  the  governess.  He  had 
recovered  partial  poise  and  his  face  was  pale  as  wax, 
his  eyes  evil. 

'Til  mail  them,  Miss  Nicholson,"  said  Sandy.  "Let's 
go."  He  took  Sam  aside  as  the  car  swung  round  and 
up  to  the  porch.  "I'm  obliged  to  you,  Sam,"  he  said. 
"It  was  sure  comin'  to  him  an'  I've  been  havin'  hard 
work  to  keep  my  hands  off  him.  I've  a  notion  he'll 
trail  better  now.  If  Brandon  arrives  befo'  we  git 
back,  look  out  fo'  him.  Mormon'll  help  you  enter- 
tain." 

"Seguro,"  replied  Sam.  "Look  at  Keith.  He  looks 
like  a  rattler  with  his  fangs  pulled.  I'll  bet  he  c'ud 
spit  bilin'  vitriol  right  now." 

"His  cud  ain't  jest  what  he  most  fancies,  this  min- 
ute," said  Sandy  dryly.  "Sorter  bitter  to  chew  an' 
hard  to  swaller.  Sammy,"  Sandy's  voice  changed  to 
affection,  his  eyes  twinkled,  "I  didn't  sabe  you  an* 
Miss  Nicholson  was  so  well  acquainted." 

Sam  looked  his  partner  in  the  eyes  and  used  almost 


328  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

the  same  words  for  which  he  had  just  tamed  Keith, 
But  he  said  them  with  a  smile. 
"You  go  plumb  to  hell !" 

Creel,  president  of  the  Hereford  National  Bank,  a 
banker  keen  at  a  bargain,  shot  out  his  underlip  when 
Keith,  with  Sandy  in  attendance,  tendered  him  the 
money  for  all  shares  of  the  Molly  Mine  sold  in  Here- 
ford, including  his  own. 

"You  say  the  mine  has  petered  out?"  he  asked  Keith, 
with  palpable  suspicion.  Keith  glanced  swiftly  at 
Sandy  sitting  across  the  table  from  him  in  the  little 
directors'  room  back  of  the  bank  proper.  Sandy  sat 
sphinx-like.  As  if  by  accident,  his  hands  were  on  his 
hips,  the  fingers  resting  on  his  gun  butts.  Keith  did 
not  actually  fear  gunplay,  but  he  was  not  sure  of  what 
Sandy  might  do.  Sam's  bullet,  that  had  undoubtedly 
been  sped  in  grim  earnest,  had  unnerved  him.  Sandy 
Bourke  held  the  winning  hand. 

"That  is  the  news  from  my  superintendent,"  said 
Keith.  "I  wish  I  could  doubt  it.  Under  the  circum- 
stances, consulting  with  Mr.  Bourke,  who  represents 
the  majority  stock,  we  concluded  there  was  no  other 
action  for  us  to  take  but  to  recall  the  shares  although 
the  money  had  actually  passed.  Naturally,  in  the 
refunding,  which  I  leave  entirely  to  you,  it  would  be 
wiser  not  to  precipitate  a  general  panic  and  to  treat 
the  matter  with  all  possible  secrecy." 

"Humph !"    Keith's  suavity  did  not  appear  entirety 
to  smooth  down  Creel's  chagrin  at  losing  what  he  had 


DEHORNED 

considered  a  good  thing.  He  smelt  a  mouse  some- 
where. "There  are  only  two  reasons  for  repurchasing 
such  stock,"  he  said  crisply.  "The  course  you  take  is 
rarely  honorable  and  suggests  great  credit.  The  sec- 
ond reason  would  be  a  strike  of  rich  ore  rather  than 
a  failure." 

"I  will  guarantee  the  failure,  Creel,"  said  Sandy. 
"If,  at  any  time,  a  strike  is  made  in  the  Molly,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  transfer  to  you  personally  the  same  amount 
of  shares  from  my  own  holdings.  I'll  put  that  in  writ- 
in',  if  you  prefer  it." 

"No,"  said  Creel,  "it  ain't  necessary."  He  glumly 
made  the  retransfer.  Sandy  viseed  Keith's  accounts 
and  took  Keith's  check  for  the  balance,  placing  it  to  a 
personal  account  for  Molly.  The  check  was  on  the 
Hereford  Bank  and  it  practically  exhausted  Keith's 
local  resources. 

As  they  left  the  bank  a  cowboy  rode  up  on  a  flea- 
bitten  roan  that  was  lathered  with  sweat,  sadly 
roweled  and  leg-weary.  Astride  of  it  was  Wyatt,  rid- 
ing automatically  his  eyes  wide-opened,  red-rimmed, 
owlish  with  lack  of  sleep  and  overmuch  bad  liquor. 
Afoot  he  could  hardly  have  navigated,  in  the  saddle  he 
seemed  comparatively  sober.  He  spurred  over  to  the 
big  machine  as  Sandy  and  Keith  got  in  to  return  to  the 
ranch,  sweeping  his  sombrero  low  in  an  ironical  bow. 

"Evenin',  gents,"  he  greeted  them,  his  voice  husky, 
inclined  to  hiccough.  "This  here  is  one  hell  of  a  town, 
Bourke!  They've  took  away  my  guns  an*  told  me  to 
be  good,  they're  sellin'  doughnuts  an'  buttermilk  down 


330  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

to  Regan's  old  joint,  popcorn  an'  sody-water  over  to 
Pap  Gleason's!  Me,  I  tote  my  own  licker  an'  they 
don't  take  that  off  'n  my  hip.  You  don't  want  a  good 
man  out  to  the  Three  Star,  Bourke  ?" 

"I  never  saw  a  real  good  man  the  shape  you're  in, 
Wyatt.  Sober  up  an'  I'll  talk  to  you." 

Wyatt  leaned  from  the  saddle  and  held  on  to  the  side 
of  the  machine  with  one  hand,  his  alcohol-varnished 
eyes  boring  into  Sandy's  with  the  fixity  of  drink-mad- 
ness. 

"Why  in  hell  would  I  sober  up?"  he  demanded. 
"Plimsoll,  the  lousy  swine,  he  stole  my  gal,  God  blast 
him!  He  drove  me  off'n  the  Waterline,  him  an'  the 
ones  that  hang  with  him.  I'd  like  to  see  him  hang. 
I'd  like  to  see  the  eyes  stickin'  out  of  his  head  an'  his 
tongue  stickin'  out  of  his  lyin'  jaws !  I'm  gettin'  even 
with  Jim  Plimsoll  fo*  what  he  done  to  me."  Wyatt's 
eyes  suddenly  ran  over  with  tears  of  self-pity.  "Blast 
him  to  hell!"  he  cried.  "Watch  my  smoke!"  He 
withdrew  his  hand  and  galloped  up  the  street  as  Keith's 
car  started. 

The  powerful  engine  made  nothing  of  the  few  miles 
between  Hereford  and  the  Three  Star  and  it  was  only 
mid-afternoon  when  they  arrived.  Molly  and  Donald 
Keith  were  still  absent,  there  was  no  sign  of  Brandon. 
Sandy  fancied  that  any  wait  would  not  be  especially 
congenial  to  Keith,  but  the  promoter  was  firm  in  his 
determination  to  take  away  his  son  from  the  ranch. 
While  his  resentment  could  find  no  outlet,  it  was  plain 
that  he  and  his  were  through  with  any  one  connected 
with  the  Three  Star  brand. 


DEHORNED  331 

Acting  without  any  thought  of  this,  save  as  it  sim- 
mered subconsciously,  Sandy  rejoiced  that  Molly 
would  now  stay.  He  intended  to  give  her  open  choice 
—there  was  money  enough  left,  aside  from  the  capital 
used  on  the  Three  Star,  to  send  her  back  east  for  a 
completion  of  education.  Or  to  pay  Miss  Nicholson 
for  remaining  as  educator.  He  surmised  that  Sam 
would  persuade  Kate  Nicholson  to  stay  in  any  event. 
Molly,  returned,  appeared  so  much  the  woman,  that 
the  question  of  further  schooling  seemed  superfluous 
to  Sandy.  He  felt  that  it  would  to  her,  especially  after 
he  had  told  her  all  that  had  occurred  since  morning, 
That  she  would  approve  he  had  no  doubt.  Molly  was 
true  blue  as  her  eyes.  Altogether,  Sandy  considered 
the  petering  out  of  the  Molly  Mine  far  from  being  a 
disaster.  And,  if  Molly  stayed  west — for  keeps — ? 

Keith  stayed  in  his  car,  smoking,  ignoring  the  very 
existence  of  the  ranch  and  its  people.  The  afternoon 
wore  on  with  the  sun  dropping  gradually  toward  the 
last  quarter  of  the  day's  march.  At  four  o'clock  one 
of  the  Three  Star  riders  came  in  at  a  gallop,  carrying 
double.  Behind  him,  clinging  tight,  was  Donald 
Keith,  woebegone,  almost  exhausted,  his  trim  riding 
clothes  snagged  and  soiled,  his  shining  puttees  scuffed 
and  scratched.  He  staggered  as  he  slid  out  of  the 
saddle  and  clung  to  the  cantle,  head  sunk  on  arms  until 
Sandy  took  him  by  the  arm.  Keith  sprang  from  his 
car  and  came  over.  Sam  and  Mormon  hurried  up. 

"What's  this?"  demanded  Keith  angrily,  suspicion 
rife  in  his  voice. 


332  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I  picked  him  up  three  mile'  back,  hoofin'  it.  He 
was  headin'  fo'  Bitter  Flats  but  he  wanted  the  ranch," 
said  the  cowboy  to  Sandy,  ignoring  Keith.  "We 
burned  wind  an'  leather  comin'  in,  seein'  Jim  Plimsoll 
an'  some  of  his  gang  have  made  off  with  Miss  Molly !" 

"Where'd  this  happen?"  demanded  Sandy.  "Sam, 
go  git  Pronto  fo'  me  an*  saddle  up." 

"That's  the  hell  of  it,"  said  the  rider.  "The  pore 
damn  fool  don't  know.  Plumb  loco !  Scared  to  death. 
Been  wanderin'  round  sence  afore  noon." 

Donald  Keith  sagged  suddenly  and  Sandy  picked 
the  lad  up  in  his  arms.  Weariness  and  fright,  thirst, 
the  changed  altitude,  had  overtoiled  his  endurance. 
Sandy  strode  with  him  to  the  car  and  laid  him  on  the 
cushions. 

"Git  some  water,"  he  ordered  Keith.  "We've  got  no 
licker  on  the  ranch.  Here's  one  of  the  times  Prohibi- 
tion an'  me  don't  hitch." 

Keith  bent,  opened  a  shallow  drawer  beneath  the 
seat  and  produced  a  silver  flask.  He  unscrewed  the 
top  and  poured  some  liquor  into  it.  It  was  Scotch 
whisky  of  a  pre-war  vintage.  The  aroma  of  the  stuff 
dissolved  in  the  rare  air,  vaguely  scenting  it.  The 
nose  of  the  wooden-faced  chauffeur  wrinkled.  Sandy 
raised  the  boy's  head  and  lifted  the  whisky  to  his 
pallid  lips,  gray  as  his  face  where  the  flesh  matched 
the  powdery  alkali  that  covered  it. 

"Pinch  his  nose,"  he  said  to  Keith.  "He's  breathin' 
regular.  Stroke  his  throat  soon  as  I  git  the  stuff  back 
of  his  teeth.  So.  Now  then." 


DEHORNED  333 

The  cordial  trickled  down  and  Donald's  eyes  opened. 
Almost  immediately  color  came  back  into  his  cheeks 
and  lips  and  he  tried  to  sit  up.  Sandy  helped  him. 

"Now,  sonny/'  he  said.  "Tell  us  about  it.  How'd  this 
happen  an'  where?  An'  when,  if  you  can  place  that?" 

Donald  nodded. 

"Just  a  second,"  he  whispered  and  closed  his  eyes. 
They  were  bright  when  he  raised  the  lids  again. 

"Whisky  got  me  going,"  he  said.  "I'd  have  given  a 
whole  lot  for  that  flask  two  or  three  hours  ago,  Dad." 

"Never  mind  the  whisky,  where  did  you  leave  Mol- 
ly?" demanded  Sandy. 

"I  don't  know  just  where.  I  wasn't  noticing  just 
which  way  we  rode.  She  did  the  leading.  I  don't 
know  how  I  ever  got  back." 

"Didn't  she  tell  you  where  you  were  makin'  fo'  ?" 

"She  didn't  name  it.  It  was  a  little  lake  in  some 
canon  where  Molly  said  there  used  to  be  beavers." 

"Beaver  Dam  Canon,"  said  Sandy  exultantly.  "You 
left  here  'bout  seven.  How  fast  did  you  trail  ?" 

"We  walked  the  horses  most  of  the  time.  It  was  all 
up-hill.  And  I  looked  at  my  watch  a  little  before  it 
happened.  It  was  a  quarter  of  eleven.  Molly  said 
we'd  be  there  by  noon." 

"Where  were  you  then?  What  kind  of  a  place? 
Near  water?" 

"We'd  just  crossed  a  stream." 

"Wilier  Crick,  runs  out  of  Beaver  Dam  Lake.  You 
c'udn't  foller  that  up,  'count  of  the  falls.  Now,  jest 
what  happened?" 


334  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"We  saw  some  men  ahead  of  us.  Molly  wondered 
who  they  could  be.  Then  they  disappeared.  We  were 
riding  in  a  pass  and  two  of  them  showed  again,  com- 
ing out  of  the  trees  ahead  of  us.  One  of  them,  on  a 
big  black  horse,  held  up  his  hand." 

"Jim  Plimsoll!" 

"Yes.  Molly  recognized  him  and  she  spoke  to  him 
to  get  out  of  the  trail.  It  was  brush  and  cactus  either 
side  of  us  and  we'd  have  had  to  crowd  in.  Grit  was 
trailing  us.  Plimsoll  wouldn't  move.  I  heard  more 
horses  back  of  us  and  I  turned  to  look.  Two  more 
men  were  coming  up  behind.  They  had  rifles.  So 
did  the  man  with  Plimsoll.  He  had  a  pistol  under  his 
vest.  We  couldn't  go  back  very  well  and  I  could  see 
from  the  way  Plimsoll  grinned  that  he  was  going  to 
be  nasty.  Molly  spurred  Blaze  on  and  cut  at  Plimsoll 
with  her  quirt.  He  grabbed  her  hand  with  his  left. 
Grit  sprang  up  at  him  and  he  got  out  his  gun  from 
the  shoulder  sling  and  shot  him." 

"Shot  the  dawg?    Hit  him?" 

"Yes,  in  the  leg.  He  fired  at  him  again,  but  Grit 
got  into  the  bmsh." 

"Jest  what  were  you  doin*  all  the  time?"  Sandy 
knew  the  lad  was  a  tenderfoot,  knew  he  would  have 
been  small  use  on  such  an  occasion,  but  the  thought  of 
Grit  rising  to  the  rescue,  falling  back  shot,  brought  the 
taunt. 

"The  two  men  behind  told  me  to  throw  up  my 
hands,"  said  young  Keith,  his  face  reddening.  "What 
could  I  do?" 


DEHORNED  335 

"Nothin',  son.  You  c'udn't  have  done  a  thing.  Go 
on." 

"Plimsoll  twisted  Molly's  wrist  so  that  the  quirt 
fell  to  the  ground.  The  man  who  was  with  him 
tossed  his  rope  over  her  and  they  twisted  it  round  her 
arms.  I  had  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle  poked  into  my  ribs. 
They  made  me  get  off  my  horse.  And  they  made  me 
walk  back  along  the  trail.  They  fired  bullets  each  side 
of  me  and  laughed  at  me  when  I  dodged.  They  told 
me  if  I  looked  back  they'd  shoot  my  damned  head  off." 
Donald's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  of  self-pity  and 
the  remembrance  of  his  helpless  rage.  "They  kept 
firing  at  me  until  I'd  passed  the  stream.  I  hid  in  the 
willows,  but  I  couldn't  see  anything.  I  couldn't  even 
see  the  men  who  had  been  firing  at  me. 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  couldn't  rescue 
Molly  without  a  horse.  I  only  had  a  revolver  against 
their  rifles  and  I'm  not  much  of  a  shot.  I  tried  to  get 
back  here  but  it  was  hard  to  find  the  way.  I  knew  it 
was  east  but  the  sun  was  high  and  I  wasn't  sure  which 
way  the  shadows  lay.  I  was  all  in  when  your  man 
found  me." 

"All  right,  my  son.  Keith,  I'm  goin'  to  borrow 
that  flask  of  yores.  Might  need  it." 

He  jumped  from  the  car,  flask  in  hand,  and  ran  to 
the  ranch-house.  Kate  Nicholson  met  him  as  he  en- 
tered. "Has  anything  happened  to  Molly  ?"  she  gasped. 

"That's  what  I'm  goin'  to  find  out,"  Sandy 
answered.  "Mormon,  git  me  my  cartridge  belt  an* 
some  extry  shells  fo'  my  rifle." 


336  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"I  got  to  go  git  me  my  hawss,"  demurred  Mormon 
who  had  followed  him  in.  "Becos'  I'm  goin'  on  this 
trail." 

"You  can  come  erlong  with  Sam  when  the  Brandon 
outfit  shows.  Or,  if  they  don't  show,  you  can  bring 
erlong  our  own  boys  soon's  they  come  in.  But  I'm 
hittin'  this  alone." 

,    As  he  spoke  he  rummaged  in  a  drawer  and  brought 
out  the  first-aid  kit  he  always  kept  handy. 

"You  ain't  takin'  Sam?"  asked  Mormon,  returning 
with  the  cartridge  belt,  Sandy's  rifle  and  a  box  of 
shells.  "I  know  you're  goin'  to  ride  hard  an'  fast, 
Sandy,  but  you  got  to  go  slow  after  you  git  tryin'  to 
cut  sign.  Plimsoll's  likely  taken  her  over  to  the  Water- 
line  range  country.  They  got  a  place  over  there 
somewhere  they  call  the  Hideout.  It's  where  they  hide 
their  hawsses  when  they  want  'em  out  of  sight  an' 
I  reckon  it's  hard  to  find.  I  c'ud  keep  within'  sight 
of  you  till  you  start  cuttin'  sign,  Sandy,  an'  then  catch 
up." 

"Sam  ain't  comin',"  said  Sandy,  filling  his  rifle 
magazine  and  breech,  stowing  away  extra  clips.  "I'm 
goin'  in  alone.  Mo'n  one  'ud  be  likely  to  spoil  sign, 
Mormon,  mo'n  one  is  likely  to  advertise  we're  comin'. 
They're  liable  to  leave  a  lookout  Know  we'll  miss 
Molly  some  time.  Figgered  young  Keith  might  git 
back  some  time.  Plimsoll's  clearin'  out  of  the  country 
an'  I'm  trailin'  him  clean  through  hell  if  I  have  to.  Ef 
he's  harmed  Molly  I'll  stake  him  out  with  a  green 
hide  wrapped  round  him  an'  his  eyelids  sliced  off.  I'll 


DEHORNED  337 

sit  in  the  shade  an'  watch  him  frizzle  an'  yell  when  the 
hide  shrinks  in  the  sun.  This  is  my  private  play,  Mor- 
mon. You  an'  Sam  can  back  it  up,  but  I'm  handlin' 
the  cards.  I'll  leave  sign  plain  fo'  you  to  foller  from 
Wilier  Crick.  They  must  have  crossed  at  the  ford 
below  the  big  bend." 

He  left  the  room  and  they  saw  him  covering  the 
ground  in  a  wolf  trot  to  where  Sam,  astride  his  own 
favorite  mount,  held  Pronto  ready  saddled.  They 
saw  Sam's  protest,  Sandy's  vigorous  overruling  of  it, 
and  then  Sandy  was  up-saddle  and  away  at  a  brisk 
lope  with  Sam  gazing  after  him  disconsolately.  Keith's 
car  was  turning  for  the  trip  to  Hereford,  spurning  the 
dust  of  the  Three  Star  Ranch  forever — and  not 
lamented. 

"Ain't  it  jest  plumb  hell — beggin'  yore  pardon, 
marm — but  that's  what  it  is — plain  hell!"  cried  Mor- 
mon. Tears  of  mortification  were  in  his  eyes,  his 
voice  was  high-pitched  and  his  chagrin  was  so  much 
like  that  of  an  overgrown  child  that  Kate  Nicholson 
felt  constrained  to  laugh  despite  the  seriousness  of  the 
situation.  "Me,  I  been  punchin'  cows,  ridm'  a  hawss 
fo'  a  livin*  fo'  nigh  thirty  years,"  said  Mormon.  "I 
ain't  what  you'd  call  sooperannuated  yit,  if  I  am  bald. 
I'm  healthy  as  a  woodchuck.  But  I'm  so  goldarned, 
hunky-chunky,  hawg-fat  I  can't  ride  a  hawss  no  mo' 
— not  faster  'n  a  walk  or  further  than  two  mile',  fo' 
fear  of  breakin'  his  back.  So  I  git  left  home  to  sit  in 
a  damn  rockin'  chair!  Hell  and  damnation!" 

"You're  going  to  follow  him,  aren't  you?" 


338  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"That  was  jest  Sandy's  way  of  lettin'  me  down 
easy.  Sam'll  go,  but  I'll  stay  to  home.  I'm  goin' 
to  give  away  my  guns  an'  learn  milkin'.  Sandy's  got 
about  three  hours  of  daylight.  He'll  go  'cross  lots  on 
the  hawss,  fur  as  he  reckons  the  sign  shows  safe,  an' 
no  man  can  read  sign  better'n  Sandy.  Then  he'll  play 
snake  an'  he  can  beat  an  Indian  at  takin'  cover.  He'll 
drift  over  open  country  'thout  bein'  spotted  an',  up 
there  in  the  range,  they'll  never  see,  smell  or  hear  him 
till  he's  on  top  of  'em  an'  his  guns  are  doin'  the  talkin'. 
You  ought  to  see  him  in  action.  I've  done  it.  I've 
been  in  action  with  him,  me  an'  Sam.  Now  all  I'm 
good  fo'  is  a  close  quarters  ra'r  an'  tumble.  He 
w'udn't  take  Sam  erlong  fo'  fear  of  hurtin'  my  feelin's 
though  even  Sam  'ud  be  some  handicap  to  Sandy  on 
this  trip  of  scoutin'. 

"Sam  can't  take  cover  extra  good,  though  he  shoots 
middlin'.  Sandy,  he  shoots  like  lightnin'  fast  an' 
straight." 

"But  there  are  four  against  him,  at  least." 

"Fo'  what?"  asked  Mormon  with  a  look  of  scorn. 
"Plimsoll  an'  three  of  his  cronies.  Mebbe  one  or  two 
mo'  chucked  in  fo'  good  measure.  What  of  it  ?  Yeller, 
all  of  'em,  yeller  as  the  belly  of  a  Gila  River  pizen 
lizard.  On'y  way  the  odds  'ud  be  even  w'ud  be  fo' 
them  to  git  the  drop  on  Sandy  an'  it  can't  be  done. 
He's  got  his  fightin'  face  on  an'  that  means  hands  an' 
heart  an'  eyes  an'  brain  an'  every  inch  of  him  lined  up 
to  win.  Sandy  fights  with  his  head  an'  he's  got  the 
heart  to  back  it.  Hell's  bells,  marm,  beggin'  yo'  par- 


DEHORNED  339 

don  ag'in,  I  ain't  worryin'  none  erbout  Sandy!  I 
ain't  seen  him  lose  out  yet.  I'm  cussin'  about  me — 
warmin'  an  armchair  an'  waddlin'  round  like  a  fall 
hawg." 

Mormon  slammed  his  hat  on  the  floor  and  jumped 
on  it  and  Miss  Nicholson  fled,  a  little  reassured  by 
Mormon's  eulogy,  anxious  to  talk  it  over  with  Sam. 

Sandy,  his  eyes  like  the  mica  flakes  that  show  in 
gray  granite,  his  humorous  mouth  a  stern  line,  little 
bunches  of  muscles  at  the  junction  of  his  jaws,  held  the 
pinto  to  a  steady  lope  that  ate  up  the  ground,  drifting 
straight  and  fast  across  country  for  the  opening  in 
the  mesa  that  he  had  marked  as  the  short-cut  to  the 
spot  described  by  Donald  Keith.  Through  gray  sage 
and  ferny  mesquite  Pronto  moved,  elastic  of  every 
sinew,  springy  of  pastern,  without  fret  or  fuss  though 
he  had  not  been  ridden  for  two  days.  Even  as  the  man 
fitted  the  saddle,  counterbalanced  every  supple  move- 
ment of  his  stead,  so  Sandy's  will  dominated  that  of 
Pronto,  making  his  mood  his  master's,  telling  him  the 
occasion  was  one  for  best  efforts  with  no  place  for 
wasted  energy. 

"We're  goin*  to  cross  a  hard  country,  KT  hawss," 
said  Sandy.  "But  I  figger  we  can  make  it.  Got  to 
make  it,  Pronto.  An'  we're  sure  goin'  to.  Doin'  it 
fo'  her." 

Every  now  and  then  he  talked  his  thoughts  aloud, 
as  the  lonely  rider  will  and,  if  the  pinto  could  not  un- 
derstand, he  listened  with  pricked  ears. 

"Grit  must  have  been  hurt  pritty  bad,  I'm  afraid, 


340  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Still  he  might  have  trailed  her  'stead  of  comin'  back. 
Sun's  gettin'  to'ards  the  no'th." 

He  glanced  at  the  luminary,  slowly  descending. 
"But  the  moon's  up  already  an'  she's  full."  He  looked 
to  where  a  wan  plate  of  battered  silver  hung  in  the 
east.  "We  got  some  luck  on  our  side,  Pronto,  after 
all. 

"Wonder  who  the  three  were  with  Plimsoll? 
They've  gone  to  the  Hideout  an'  we  got  to  find  it,  liT 
hawss.  Some  job,  I  reckon.  But  Plimsoll's  goin'  to 
be  mighty  sorry  fo'  himse'f  befo'  long." 

As  they  neared  the  foot-hills  of  the  range  he  lapsed 
to  silence.  He  was  taking  chances,  crossing  country 
this  fashion.  He  knew  it  fairly  well,  and  he  guessed 
at  what  lay  behind  the  visible  contours  from  the  expe- 
rience of  years.  Deep  barrancas  might  crop  up  in 
their  path,  massed  thickets  of  cactus  that  had  to  be 
ridden  around  for  loss  of  time.  The  mesa,  looking  like 
a  solid  block  of  rock  at  a  distance,  was,  he  knew  well 
broken  into  tortuous  ravines  and  canons,  eroded  into 
wild  thrusts  of  the  mother  rock,  its  central  part  eaten 
away  by  time  and  weather. 

Part  of  the  Three  Star  range,  shared  by  two  ranches, 
ran  over  the  southern  part  of  the  mesa  and  it  was  close 
to  its  boundary  fence  that  Sandy  was  heading.  Then 
came  the  range  of  Plimsoll's  Waterline,  a  rough  coun- 
try, unknown  to  Sandy,  with  scant  food  for  many 
cattle,  but  sweet  grass  enough  for  a  horse  herd  and 
containing  pockets  where  the  slicktails  sometimes 
came. 


DEHORNED  34i 

Sandy  struck  the  first  rise.  He  was  now  a  crucible 
filled  with  glowing  white  fury.  Thoughts  of  what 
Plimsoll  might  achieve  in  insult  and  injury  to  Molly 
could  not  be  kept  out  of  his  mind  and  they  but  added 
fuel.  It  was  not  Sandy  Bourke  of  the  Three  Bar,  rid- 
ing his  favorite  pinto,  but  a  desperate  man  on  a  horse 
infected  with  the  same  grim  determination,  a  man  with 
a  face  that,  despite  the  fiery  heat  within,  blazing  from 
his  eyes,  would  have  chilled  the  blood  of  any  meeting 
him. 

He  did  not  spare  Pronto  nor  did  Pronto  attempt  to 
spare  himself,  going  at  the  task  set  before  him  with  all 
the  superb  coordination  of  muscle  and  tendon  and  bone 
that  he  possessed.  They  slid  down  the  sides  of  ravines' 
that  were  almost  as  steep  as  a  wall,  the  pinto  squat- 
ting on  its  tail;  they  climbed  the  opposing  banks  with 
the  surety  of  a  mountain  goat,  a  rush,  a  scramble  of 
well-placed  hooves,  a  play  of  fetlocks;  then,  with  a 
heave  of  spreading  ribs  and  hammer-strokes  of  a  gal- 
lant heart  under  Sandy's  lean  thighs,  they  were  over 
the  top  and  away,  with  Sandy's  eyes  searching  the 
land  for  the  shortest,  most  practical  way. 

The  place  it  had  taken  Molly  and  young  Keith  nearly 
three  hours  to  reach  in  leisurely  fashion,  Sandy  gained 
in  one,  splashing  through  the  shallows  of  Willow 
Creek  at  the  ford  below  the  big  bend  and  giving  Pronto 
the  chance  to  cool  his  fetlocks  and  rinse  out  his  mouth 
in  the  cold  water. 

Ahead  lay  the  chimney  ravine  that  led  around  into 
Beaver  Dam  Lake,  in  which  Molly  and  the  boy  had 


342  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

been  attacked.  Sandy  viewed  the  chaparral,  the  trees 
that  covered  the  lesser  slopes,  the  stark  cliffs  above. 
Part  of  this  lay  in  the  Waterline  territory.  The 
chances  that  Plimsoll  had  left  some  one  on  guard  were 
not  to  be  slighted.  But  he  rode  on  down  the  narrow 
trail.  Once  in  a  while  he  broke  a  branch  and  left  it 
swinging  as  a  guide  to  Sam  when  he  should  follow 
with  the  riders  from  the  ranch.  They  would  be  com- 
ing in  now  and  in  a  few  minutes  would  start  on 
remounts.  Perhaps  Brandon  had  come?  Sandy 
wasted  little  time  on  surmise. 

The  tracks  of  Molly's  Blaze  and  the  horse  Donald 
had  been  riding  were  plain  as  print  to  Sandy.  He 
even  noticed  the  slot  of  Grit's  pads  here  and  there  in 
softer  soil.  He  had  picked  them  up  at  the  coming-out 
place  of  the  ford.  Two  more  sets  of  hoofs  came  out 
of  the  chaparral  and  from  there  on  the  sign  was  badly 
broken.  But  Sandy  knew  the  story  and  the  interpre- 
tation was  sufficient. 

The  shadows  were  getting  longer,  half  the  eastern 
side  of  the  ravine  was  in  shadow  that  steadily  crept 
down  as  if  to  obliterate  the  telltale  imprints.  The 
moon  was  slowly  brightening.  Sandy's  eyes,  burning 
steadily,  were  untroubled  by  doubt. 

The  place  of  the  struggle  was  plain.  The  brush 
was  trampled.  To  one  side  of  the  trail  there  was  a 
clot  of  blood,  almost  black,  with  flies  buzzing  attention 
to  it.  It  must  have  come  from  Grit.  He  caught  sight 
of  another  fleck  of  it  on  some  leaves  where  Grit  had 
raced  into  the  brush  out  of  the  way  of  the  crippling 
fire. 


DEHORNED  343 

'Til  score  one  fo'  you,  Grit,  while  I'm  about  it," 
muttered  Sandy  as  he  dismounted  and  carefully  sur- 
veyed the  sign.  He  even  picked  up  Donald's  return- 
ing shoemarks.  Six  horses  had  gone  on,  one  led. 

Sandy  swung  up  the  heavy  stirrups  and  tied  them 
above  the  saddle  seat.  He  stripped  the  reins  from  the 
bridle  and  pulled  down  Pronto's  wise  head. 

"Hit  the  back-trail  fo'  home,  liT  hawss,"  he  said. 
"If  I  need  me  a  mount  to  git  back  I'll  borrow  one.  I 
got  to  go  belly-trailin'  pritty  soon." 

He  gave  the  pinto  a  cautious  slap  on  the  flank  and 
Pronto  started  off  down  the  trail.  So  far  Sandy 
believed  he  had  not  been  seen.  If  he  had,  a  rifle-shot 
would  have  been  the  first  warning.  With  the  expe- 
rience of  a  man  who  has  seen  shooting  before,  he  had 
chanced  a  miss,  knowing  the  odds  on  his  side.  It  was 
twenty  to  one  Plimsoll  and  his  men  had  hurried  off 
to  the  Hideout. 

A  buzzard  hung  in  the  early  evening  sky,  circling 
high  and  then  suddenly  dropping  in  a  swoop. 

"Looks  like  Grit's  cashed  in,"  thought  Sandy.  "That 
bird  was  a  late  comer,  at  that." 

But  it  was  not  Grit. 

The  ravine  curved,  forked.  One  way  led  to  Beaver 
Dam  Lake,  the  other  rifted  deep  through  rocky  out- 
crop, leading  to  the  Waterline  Range.  The  boundary 
fence  crossed  it.  Two  posts  had  been  broken  out,  the 
wire  flattened.  Through  the  gap  led  the  sign  that 
Sandy  followed.  He  carried  his  rifle  with  him  and 
he  moved  cautiously  but  swiftly  through  the  half  light. 


344  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

for  the  cleft  was  in  shadow.  The  walls  lowered,  the 
incline  ended,  became  a  decline,  leading  down.  The 
clouds  were  assembling  for  sunset  overhead,  the  moon 
just  topped  the  eastern  cliffs,  beginning  to  send  out  a 
measure  of  reflected  light.  A  beam  struck  a  little 
cylinder,  the  emptied  shell  of  a  thirty-thirty  rifle. 
There  was  another  close  by.  And  scanty  soil  was 
marked  with  more  hoofs.  Sandy  halted,  wondering 
the  key  to  the  puzzle.  Did  it  mean  a  quarrel  between 
PlimsolPs  men  ?  Altogether  he  figured  there  had  been 
a  dozen  horses  over  the  ground.  It  was  only  a  swift 
guess  but  he  knew  it  close  to  the  mark.  Had  Plimsoll 
been  joined  or  attacked  ?  And  .  .  .  ? 

His  practised  eyes,  roving  here  and  there,  saw  still 
more  cartridge  shells.  Walking  cat-footed,  he  made 
no  sound  but  suddenly  three  buzzards  rose  on  heavy 
wings  and  he  went  swiftly  to  where  they  had  been 
squatting.  A  dead  man  lay  up  against  the  cliff,  a 
saddle  blanket  thrown  over  his  face.  This  had  held 
off  the  carrion  birds.  The  body  was  limp  and  still 
warm,  it  had  been  a  corpse  only  a  short  time.  Sandy 
took  off  the  blanket. 

It  was  Wyatt !  Wyatt,  whom  he  had  seen  not  much 
more  than  four  hours  before,  riding  on  the  main  street 
in  Hereford,  threatening  vengeance  on  Plimsoll.  A 
bullet  had  made  a  small  hole  in  his  skull  by  the  right 
temple  and  crashed  out  through  the  back  of  his  head 
in  a  bloody  gap! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  HIDEOUT 

THE  row  that  had  culminated  at  the  Waterline 
Ranch,  ending  in  the  trouble  between  Plimsoll 
and  Wyatt,  had  brewed  steadily.  It  had  been  a  reck- 
less crowd  at  the  horse  ranch,  practically  outlaws  by 
their  actions  though  not  yet  so  adjudged,  yet  knowing 
their  tenure  of  immunity  was  growing  short.  There 
had  collected,  besides  Plimsoll's  riders,  Butch  Parsons, 
Hahn's  and  others  of  Plimsoll's  following  who  had 
been  forced  from  their  livelihood  as  gamblers.  They 
still  hung  together,  waiting  for  Plimsoll  to  make  a 
clean-up  of  his  horses  and  move  to  places  where  they 
were  less  discredited. 

Meantime  they  made  their  own  crude  liquors  and 
drank  them  freely.  They  gambled  and  caroused  late. 
There  were  some  women  at  the  ranch.  There  was 
little  fellowship. 

Plimsoll  had  lost  caste  as  a  leader.  His  moods  were 
morose  or  bragging.  His  ascendancy  was  gone.  The 
crowd  clung  to  him  like  so  many  leeches,  waiting  for 
a  split  of  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  horses  that  no  one 
appeared  eager  to  buy  in  quantity.  Ready  cash  was 
short.  There  were  frequent  quarrels;  through  it  all 
there  worked  the  leaven  of  Wyatt's  jealousj,  ferment- 

345 


346  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ing  steadily.  There  were  men  among-  them  who  had 
fought  with  gunplay  and  who  had  killed  but,  as  they 
were  cheats,  so  they  were  cravens,  at  heart. 

When  the  split  came,  after  an  all-night  session  with 
cards  and  liquor,  following  the  refusal  of  a  dealer  to 
buy  the  herd,  it  was  not  merely  a  matter  between 
Wyatt  and  Plimsoll.  Sides  were  taken  and  the  weaker 
driven  from  the  ranch.  Preparations  were  made  for 
departure.  The  frightened  women  fled  back  to  Here- 
ford. 

"It's  a  rotten  mess,"  declared  Butch  Parsons. 
"Wyatt  or  one  of  the  others'll  tell  all  they  know.  You 
ought  to  have  shot  straighter,  Plimsoll.  Just  like 
cuttin'  our  own  throats  to  let  'em  get  away." 

"You  did  some  missing  on  your  own  account," 
retorted  Plimsoll. 

"It  was  the  rotten  booze.  You  started  it.  If  you'd 
plugged  Wyatt  right  it  would  have  ended  it.  Now 
we've  got  to  clear  out." 

"There  isn't  two  hundred  dollars  of  real  money  in 
the  crowd,"  said  Plimsoll.  "If  Taylor  had  taken  the 
herd  .  .  ." 

"He  was  afraid  to  touch  it.  We'll  go  south.  That's 
my  plan.  You  can  find  a  buyer  in  Tucson.  Put  the 
horses  in  the  Hideout.  Leave  one  or  two  to  look  out 
for  'em  an*  turn  'em  over  later.  We  can  arrange  for  a 
delivery  if  we  make  a  sale." 

"Who  in  hell's  goin'  to  stay  behind?"  asked  one  of 
the  men. 

"We'll  cut  cards  for  it." 


THE  HIDEOUT  347 

"Not  me." 

"What's  the  use  of  fighting  among  ourselves 
again?"  suggested  Hahn  smoothly.  "We  can  settle 
who's  to  stay  later.  There's  grub  in  the  Hideout  and 
a  safe  place  to  lay  low  if  anything  goes  wrong.  They'll 
have  a  fine  time  proving  up  the  horses  are  stolen. 
We've  got  to  take  a  chance.  Butch  is  right.  We 
can't  take  them  with  us.  There's  a  good  chance  of 
a  sale  in  Tucson.  Meantime  we've  got  to  figure  on 
Wyatt.  He'll  likely  try  to  get  in  touch  with  that 
Brandon  outfit." 

"Or  that  chap  who  said  he  was  from  Phoenix,"  put 
in  Butch.  "You  made  a  misplay,  there,  Plimsoll. 
That  chap  was  a  ringer." 

"You  talk  like  a  fool,"  retorted  Plimsoll.  "He 
sold  us  the  bunch  cheap  enough.  He  never  raised 
horses  he'd  let  go  at  that  price.  He  lifted  'em,  like  he 
said." 

"Just  the  same,  he  didn't  act  like  a  rustler." 

"It  was  his  first  trick.    Young  vouched  for  him." 

"This  ain't  getting  us  anywhere,"  said  Hahn. 
"Let's  make  for  the  Hideout  and  talk  it  out  there. 
This  place  ain't  safe." 

Within  an  hour  the  herd,  already  corraled  for  the 
chance  of  a  quick  sale,  was  being  driven  to  the  glen 
known  as  the  Hideout,  a  little  mountain  park  with 
water  and  good  feed  where  Plimsoll  placed  the  horses 
that  his  men  drove  off  from  far-away  ranches,  or 
Plimsoll  bought  from  other  horse  dealers  of  his  own 
sort,  keeping  them  there  until  their  brands  were  doc- 


348  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

tored  and  possible  pursuit  died  down.  There  were 
two  entrances  to  the  Hideout,  one  through  a  narrow 
gut  almost  blocked  by  a  fallen  boulder,  with  only  a 
passage  wide  enough  to  let  through  horse  and  rider 
single  file,  a  way  that  could  be  easily  barricaded  or 
masked  so  that  none  would  suspect  any  opening  in  the 
cliff.  The  second  led  by  a  winding  way  through  a 
desolate  region,  over  rock  that  left  no  sign  and  wound 
by  twists  and  turns  that  none  but  the  initiated  could 
follow.  The  place,  accidentally  discovered,  was  per- 
fect for  its  purpose. 

There  were  some  horses  now  in  the  Hideout,  the 
lot  purchased  from  the  man  from  Phoenix,  whom 
Butch  suspected.  But  Parsons  was  of  a  suspicious 
disposition  and  the  rest  had  overruled  him,  though  the 
purchase  had  taken  most  of  the  cash  at  their  disposal, 
until  they  could  make  the  sale  that  had  fallen  through 
at  the  last  minute.  There  was  feed  enough  for  the 
entire  herd  for  a  month.  There  was  a  cabin  in  a  side 
gully  of  the  park,  near  the  blocked  entrance,  the  whole 
place  was  honeycombed  with  caves,  in  the  towering 
sidewalls  and  underground. 

Five  of  the  nine  left  of  the  Waterline  outfit  drove 
the  herd.  Harm  and  Parsons  could  both  ride,  but 
they  were  not  experts  at  handling  horses.  They  chose 
to  go  with  Plimsoll  and  the  outfit-cook,  while  the 
rest  took  the  long  way  round  to  the  other  way  in.  The 
four  lingered  to  give  the  rest  a  start.  There  was  some 
liquor  left  and  this  they  started  to  dispose  of.  At  noon 
the  cook  got  a  farewell  meal  and  they  mounted. 


THE  HIDEOUT  349 

"I  hate  leaving  the  country  without  evening  up 
some  way  with  the  Bourke  outfit/'  said  Plimsoll. 
"Damn  him  and  the  rest  of  them,  they  broke  the  luck 
for  us.  As  for  the  girl,  if  ...  ?" 

"Oh,  quit  throwing  the  bull  con  about  that,  Jim," 
said  Parsons  bluntly.  "Sandy  Bourke's  a  damn  good 
man  for  you  to  leave  alone  an'  you  know  it.  Talk 
ain't  goin'  to  hurt  him." 

"I'm  coming  back  some  time,"  said  Plimsoll  with  a 
string  of  oaths.  "Then  you'll  see  something  besides 
talk." 

Parsons  jeered  at  him.  Plimsoll  was  no  longer  the 
leader  and  he  knew  it.  But  he  hung  on  to  the  sem- 
blance of  authority  that  an  open  quarrel  with  Butch 
might  shatter.  Butch  was  a  bully,  but  Plimsoll 
respected  his  shooting.  And  Hahn  sided  with  him. 
The  cook  did  not  count. 

Plimsoll  carried  with  him  a  fine  pair  of  binoculars 
and,  as  they  rode  leisurely  on  and  reached  a  vantage- 
point,  he  swept  the  tumbled  horizon  for  signs  of  any 
strange  riders.  It  was  the  caution  of  habit  as  much 
as  actual  fear  of  a  raid.  There  were  no  Hereford 
County  horses  in  his  herd  save  those  he  had  bred  him- 
self and  he  did  not  think  Wyatt  or  the  others  who  had 
left  the  outfit  would  be  able  to  stir  up  sentiment  against 
him  in  Hereford.  It  would  take  time  to  get  in  touch 
with  Brandon.  But  they  made  it  a  point  to  be  sure 
that  no  casual  rider  noticed  them  on  the  way  to  the 
Hideout,  or  coming  from  it. 

At  times  Plimsoll  rode  aside  from  the  trail  to  a 


350  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ridge  crest  for  wider  vision.  At  last,  coming  up  the 
pass  of  Willow  Creek,  he  sighted  Molly  and  Donald 
with  Grit  trotting  beside  them.  It  was  the  dog  that 
confirmed  his  first  surmise.  He  had  heard  that  Molly 
had  returned,  but  he  had  not  dared  a  visit  to  the  Three 
Star.  Who  the  rider  with  her  was  he  did  not  care. 
That  it  was  a  tenderfoot  was  plain  by  his  clothes  and 
by  his  seat.  As  he  adjusted  the  powerful  glasses  to  a 
better  focus  PlimsolPs  face  twisted  to  an  ugly  smile. 
He  had  a  flask  in  his  hip  pocket  and  he  swigged  at  it 
before  he  rode  to  catch  up  with  Parsons  and  Hahn. 

"I'll  show  you  if  I  do  nothing  but  talk,"  he  said  to 
Butch  after  he  told  them  of  his  discovery.  "We'll 
wait  for  them  along  the  trail.  We'll  send  the  chap 
with  her  back  afoot." 

"And  what'll  you  do  with  her?"  asked  Hahn. 
"We've  had  enough  of  skirts,  Plimsoll.  This  is  no 
time  to  be  mixed  up  with  them." 

"Isn't  it?"  The  drink  had  given  Plimsoll  some  of 
his  old  swagger,  and  the  prospect  of  hatching  the 
revenge  over  which  he  had  brooded  so  long  took 
possession  of  him.  "Then  you're  a  bigger  fool  than  I 
thought  you,  Hahn.  That  particular  skirt,  aside  from 
my  personal  interest  in  her,  represents  about  a  quarter 
of  a  million  dollars — maybe  more.  She's  got  a  quar- 
ter interest  and  a  little  better  in  the  Molly  Mine.  The 
Three  Star  owns  another  quarter.  How  much  will 
they  give  up  to  have  her  back?  Bourke's  her  guar- 
dian, remember.  I  think  the  chap  with  her  may  be 
young  Keith.  We  won't  monkey  with  him.  He'll  do 


THE  HIDEOUT  35 1 

to  tell  what  happened.  But  we'll  take  the  girl  along 
and  we'll  send  back  word  of  how  much  we  want  to  let 
her  go.  After  I'm  through  with  her.  She  may  not 
go  back  the  same  as  she  came,  but  they  won't  know 
that  and  they'll  pay  enough  to  set  us  up  and  to  hell 
with  the  herd." 

Parsons  and  Hahn  looked  at  each  other,  greed  ris- 
ing in  their  eyes.  They  had  no  love  for  the  partners 
of  the  Three  Star  nor  for  Molly  Casey.  A  big  ransom 
was  possible  if  it  was  handled  right. 

"You'll  have  the  whole  county  searching  the  range," 
objected  Parsons.  "There's  a  lot  know  something 
about  the  Hideout  and  they'll  use  Wyatt  to  show  'em 
the  way.  Bourke'll  guess  where  she  is." 

"Let  him.  Wyatt  don't  know  about  the  caves,  does 
he?  We  can  take  her  some  other  place  to-morrow. 
We  won't  say  anything  now  to  the  kid  about  a  ransom. 
We'll  mail  a  letter  after  we  fix  details.  But  we'll  take 
the  girl  into  the  Hideout  now.  That  tenderfoot'll  be 
lucky  if  he  drifts  back  to  the  Three  Star  by  nightfall 
afoot.  We'll  be  out  of  the  place  long  before  that. 
And  we'll  put  her  where  they  can't  find  her  till  they 
come  through.  I'm  running  this." 

The  cook  had  ridden  on  ahead.  Now  he  was  wait- 
ing for  them,  looking  back.  Parsons  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"How  do  we  split?"  asked  Hahn. 

"Three  ways,"  said  Plimsoll.  "We'll  take  her  to 
the  cabin.  The  rest'll  be  at  the  other  end.  We'll  keep 
Cookie  with  us — for  the  present.  No  need  for  the 


352  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

boys  to  know  about  it.  We  can  manage  that  all  right. 
Three  ways,  and  I  handle  the  girl." 

Butch  Parson  grinned  at  him. 

"I  thought  you'd  lost  all  your  nerve,  Jim,  but  I 
guess  I  was  wrong.  All  right,  it  goes  as  it  lays.  You 
handle  the  lady.  You  ought  to  know  how.  Now 
then,  how'll  we  bring  it  off?" 

Plimsoll  talked  glibly,  convincingly.  Butch  Par- 
sons had  no  extra  share  of  brains,  those  he  had  had 
never  been  developed  beyond  the  ordinary.  Hahn  was 
a  good  faro  dealer.  There  his  intelligence  specialized 
and  ended.  Plimsoll  was  the  master-mind  of  his 
crowd;  they  appreciated  and  acknowledged  his  capac- 
ity for  details.  That  he  had  been  unsuccessful  of 
late  they  set  down  to  his  lack  of  nerve,  dissipated  in 
his  encounter  with  Sandy.  Their  present  lack  of  cash, 
the  doubtfulness  of  being  able  to  sell  and  deliver  the 
horses,  made  ransom  a  glittering  possibility.  Hahn 
had  some  objections,  but  Plimsoll  overruled  fhem 
plausibly  enough. 

"I  don't  see  the  sense  of  letting  the  kid  go,"  ques- 
tioned Hahn.  "He's  good  for  a  big  split  as  well  as 
the  girl." 

"You're  a  fool  when  it  comes  to  looking  ahead, 
Hahn.  You  always  were,"  answered  Plimsoll.  What 
with  the  chance  of  revenge  in  sight  over  which  he  had 
brooded  until  it  became  a  part  of  his  consciousness, 
und  the  liquor  still  stirring  potently  within  him,  he 
felt  that  his  ascendancy  had  become  reestablished 
kKeith — the  old  man — is  too  big  a  fish  to  monkey 


THE  HIDEOUT  353 

with.  Got  too  many  pulls  and  connections.  He'd 
have  the  whole  country  out  and  the  trick  played  up 
big  in  every  dinky  newspaper.  That's  part  of  his 
business — publicity.  We've  got  one  fish — or  will 
have — no  sense  straining  the  net.  We  don't  want  the 
kid.  Let  him  string  along  back  best  way  he  can. 
We'll  get  all  the  start  we  need.  What  else  would  you 
do  with  him?" 

"Stow  him  away  somewhere  and  send  a  tip  where 
they  can  find  him  in  a  day  or  two." 

Plimsoll  shot  a  look  of  contempt  at  Butch,  making 
the  proposal. 

"You  and  Hahn  make  a  good  team,"  he  said.  "No. 
One's  enough.  He  may  get  lost — we'll  take  his  horse 
—and  that  won't  be  our  fault.  He  may  make  Three 
Star  late  this  afternoon.  I  wish  I  could  be  with  him 
when  he  tells  what  he  knows.  Time  they  locate  the 
Hideout,  we'll  be  miles  away  through  the  south  end 
and  they'll  have  one  hell  of  a  time  trailing  us  over  the 
rocks.  The  boys  weren't  over-keen  about  staying  with 
the  herd  and  they  can  vamose.  We'll  tell  them  it's  best 
to  scatter  for  a  bit  and  name  a  meeting-place.  The 
horses  can  stay  in  the  park.  If  we  put  this  deal  over 
right  we  don't  need  to  bother  about  horse-trading. 
We  can  get  clean  out  or  the  country  with  a  big  stake, 
go  down  to  South  America  and  start  up  a  place.  There 
are  live  times  and  good  plays  down  there,  boys.  All 
right,  Cookie,  we're  coming.  I'm  going  to  take 
another  look.  It's  ten  to  one  they're  making  for  Beaver 
Dam  Lake— on  a  picnic." 


354  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

He  laughed  and  the  two  laughed  with  him  as  he 
went  for  his  survey  and  returned,  announcing  that 
the  girl  and  her  escort  were  entering  the  ravine  at  the 
other  end.  They  rode  through  the  trees  toward  them. 
Molly  and  Donald  came  on  so  leisurely  that  Plimsoll 
feared  they  might  have  turned  back  and,  with  Butch, 
he  risked  a  look  down  the  trail,  sighting  them. 

"They  didn't  recognize  us/'  he  said.  "We've  got 
to  take  Cookie  into  this.  You  and  Butch  ride  on 
through  the  trees  a  ways,  Hahn,  till  you  get  back  of 
them.  Then  we'll  get  'em  between  us.  I'll  wise 
Cookie  up  to  what  we  are  doing." 

It  was  more  than  doubtful  whether  the  three  ever 
intended  for  a  second  to  allow  Cookie  to  share  in  the 
ransom  money,  but  Plimsoll  easily  persuaded  him  that 
he  would  be  a  partner,  adding  that  it  would  be  foolish 
to  let  all  the  riders  into  the  pot. 

"She's  Molly  Casey  of  the  Casey  Mine,"  he  told 
him.  "Sandy  Bourke's  her  guardian.  We'll  make  him 
come  through  with  twenty  or  thirty  thousand,  sabe? 
But  there  ain't  enough  to  go  all  round  and  make  a 
showing." 

Cookie  was  a  willing  rascal  and  a  natural  adept  at 
the  double-cross.  He  raised  no  objections  and  the 
trap  was  set  and  sprung. 

"You  go  ahead,  Cookie,  and  open  up  the  gate/' 
said  Plimsoll.  Hahn  and  Butch  were  speeding  Donald 
Keith  on  his  way  with  close- flung  bullets.  "I'm  going 
to  have  a  little  private  talk  with  this  lady.  Go  to  the 
cabin  and  get  some  grub  ready.  There's  plenty  there. 


THE  HIDEOUT  355 

Spread  yourself.  We'll  be  along  in  a  little  while. 
That  was  a  nice  job  of  roping  you  did.  I  won't  forget 
it." 

"Allus  c'ud  lass'  fair  to  middlin',"  grinned  the  man 
through  yellow,  stumpy  teeth.  "That's  why  I  tote  a 
rope.  An'  I  sure  had  a  purty  target." 

Plimsoll  scowled  at  him  and  he  rode  off.  Molly,  the 
lariat  twisted  about  her  upper  body  from  shoulders 
to  waist,  constricting  her  arms,  fastened  where  she 
could  not  reach  it  by  a  hitch,  sat  on  Blaze,  looking 
with  steady  contempt  at  Plimsoll,  who  held  her  bridle 
rein.  He  regarded  her  with  sleek  complacency  and 
then  his  eyes  slowly  traveled  over  her  rounded  figure, 
accented  by  her  riding  toggery. 

"Grown  to  be  quite  a  beauty,  quite  a  woman,  Molly, 
my  dear,"  he  said.  "Never  should  have  suspected 
you'd  turn  out  such  a  wonder.  Clothes  make  the 
woman,  but  it  takes  a  proper  figure  to  set  them  off. 
And  you've  got  all  of  that." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you — yet.  It  depends  upon 
circumstances,  my  dear.  We'll  all  have  a  little  chat 
after  lunch.  I'd  take  that  rope  off  if  I  wasn't  afraid 
I  might  lose  you.  You  are  quite  precious." 

She  looked  through  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  sheet 
of  glass.  From  her  first  sight  of  him,  back  in  child- 
hood, she  had  known  instinctively  the  man  was  evil. 
But  she  was  not  afraid.  The  blood  that  ran  in  her 
xveins  was  pure  and  bore  in  its  crimson  flood  the  sturdy 
heritage  of  pioneers  who  had  outfaced  dangers  of 


356  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

death  and  torture  and  shame.  She  was  all  westerner. 
The  blood  was  fighting  blood.  She  felt  it  urged  in 
her  pulses  while  her  brain  bade  her  bide  her  time. 
Rage  mounted  as  she  faced  the  possible  issues  of  this 
capture,  the  flaunting  dismissal  of  young  Keith. 

Plimsoll  must  be  either  very  sure  of  his  ground 
or  desperate,  she  fancied.  Both,  perhaps.  Molly  had 
come  into  contact  with  life  in  the  raw  long  before  she 
went  east.  Education  had  not  made  a  prude  of  her 
nor  tainted  her  clean  purity.  She  faced  the  fact  and, 
for  the  time,  she  ignored  the  man.  She  had  even  time 
to  think  of  young  Donald  turned  tenderfooted  into 
the  mountains,  to  wonder  whether  he  would  be  able  to 
find  his  way  back  or  get  lost  in  the  ranges.  She 
heard  the  laughter  that  followed  the  rifle-shots  and 
surmised  that  they  were  having  their  idea  of  a  joke 
with  the  lad. 

If  he  got  back — then  Sandy  would  come  after  her. 
She  was  very  sure  of  Sandy  and  that  he  would  find 
her.  Until  he  did  she  must  use  her  wits. 

And  Grit,  gallant  Grit,  wounded  and  lying  in  the 
chaparral ! 

Though  she  still  gazed  through  Plimsoll  rather 
than  at  him,  the  scorn  showed  in  her  eyes  and  bit 
through  his  assumption  of  ease  as  acid  bites  through 
skin,  eating  its  way  on.  He  burned  to  wipe  out  his 
own  trickeries,  his  cowardice,  his  failures,  to  wreak  a 
vile  satisfaction  on  this  girl  who  sat  so  disdainfully, 
with  her  chin  lifted,  her  lips  firm,  oblivious  of  him. 
She  baffled  him.  A  mind  like  Plimsoll's  never  had  the 


THE  HIDEOUT  357 

clarity  of  prevision  to  see  the  strength  of  character 
that  had  been  in  the  prospector's  child,  even  as  he  had 
never  suspected  her  unfolding  to  beauty.  It  roused 
the  vandal  in  him — he  longed  to  break  her,  mar  her. 

The  return  of  Butch  and  Hahn  brought  him  back 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  not  playing  this  deal  alone. 
While  they  might  allow  him  some  personal  license,  to 
them  the  girl  represented  so  much  money.  Plimsoll's 
reprisals  were  only  partly  theirs,  they  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  balk  them  of  their  share.  There  is  Ber- 
serker madness  latent  in  every  one  that  breaks  out 
sometimes  in  the  child  that  torments  a  kitten  and  ends 
by  torturing  it,  maiming — killing.  There  had  been 
nothing  in  what  stood  for  Plimsoirs  manhood  to 
change  such  instinct,  to  restrain  it  where  he  held  the 
will  and  power.  But  here  he  had  to  go  carefully. 

He  cut  short  Butch's  boast  of  the  way  they  had 
scared  young  Keith.  Both  Hahn  and  Parsons  felt  a 
coil  of  embarrassment  at  the  silence,  almost  the  seren- 
ity, of  their  captive.  They  had  expected  her  to  act 
far  differently,  to  rage,  threaten,  cry  out.  She  almost 
abashed  them. 

"See  if  you  can  round  up  that  damned  dog,  Butch," 
said  Plimsoll.  "I  plugged  him  but  we  want  to  be 
sure  he  don't  get  away.  He  might  help  Keith's  kid, 
for  one  thing.  And  he  clamped  my  arm." 

Parsons  rode  into  the  chaparral  until  he  was  barred 
by  its  thickness,  trying  to  stir  out  the  dog,  without 
success. 

"Dead,  I  reckon,"  he  reported.     "Crawled  in  some- 


358  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

wheres.  You  hit  him  hard,  Plim.  Plenty  blood  on 
the  leaves." 

Molly  bit  her  lips  and  paled  a  little,  but  turned  away 
her  head  so  that  they  could  not  see.  She  winked  back 
the  tears  that  came  to  her  thought  of  Grit  helpless, 
panting,  bleeding. 

They  rode  on  up  the  rocky  ravine  that  gradually 
closed  in  on  either  side  with  the  rock  walls  set  with 
cactus  here  and  there,  carved  into  great  masses  super- 
imposed upon  one  another  for  a  hundred  feet.  Pres- 
ently they  turned  aside  from  the  stony  trail  that  left 
no  record  of  hooves,  and,  Plimsoll  in  the  lead,  Molly 
next,  walked  their  horses  over  a  precarious  ledge  that 
zigzagged  back  and  forth  up  to  where  a  notch  in  the 
cliff  had  been  nearly  filled  by  a  titanic  boulder.  To 
one  side  appeared  a  narrow  opening,  unseen  from 
below  by  the  curve  of  the  great  rock,  just  wide  enough 
to  admit  horse  and  rider.  A  few  feet  in,  they  halted, 
and  Plimsoll  turned  in  his  saddle  while  the  other  three 
men  dismounted  and  carefully  adjusted  several  rock 
fragments  in  the  opening,  piling  them  with  a  swift 
care  that  showed  familiarity  with  their  task,  so  plac- 
ing them  that  they  appeared  as  if  a  part  of  the  wall. 
Butch  clambered  to  the  top  of  the  great  boulder  and 
viewed  the  job  from  the  outside. 

"First-class,"  he  announced.  "That's  sure  a  great 
scheme,  Plim." 

"Go  on  up  to  the  tree  and  take  a  look,"  said  Plim- 
soll. "Hahn,  hand  him  my  glasses." 

Parson  took  them  and  climbed  up  to  where  a  dead 


THE  HIDEOUT  359 

tree  stood  like  a  skeleton  in  a  crotch  of  the  rocks.  It 
screened  him  from  observation  perfectly  by  outer 
approach. 

"I  can  see  Keith's  kid,"  he  said  with  a  chuckle  when 
he  came  down.  "He's  through  the  creek  and  he  don't 
know  which  way  to  start.  Looks  as  if  he  meant  to 
follow  down  the  creek." 

"He'll  not  go  far  that  way,"  commented  Plimsoll. 
"Mount  up.  Cookie's  getting  grub  and  I'm  getting 
hungry.  He'll  have  to  cook  for  the  boys  after  we're 
through.  They'll  be  showing  up  after  a  bit." 

Below  them,  Molly  saw  the  hidden  park  that  lay  so 
snugly  back  of  the  barrier  walls.  It  was  an  irregular 
oval  that  appeared  to  curve  at  the  far  end.  Gulches 
reached  back,  occasionally  thick  with  timber  that  grew 
in  clumps  among  the  rocks  and  on  the  ledges,  dotting 
the  green  grass  of  the  floor.  She  caught  the  sparkle 
of  a  little  cascade,  the  gleam  of  a  streamlet.  The 
cliffs  were  terraced  and  battlemented  in  red  and  white 
and  gray.  Their  fagades  showed  fantasies  of  weather 
sculpture  that  looked  like  ruined  castles  and  cathedrals 
with  cave  mouths  for  entrances.  Here  and  there  a 
monolith  of  stone  stood  up  out  from  the  main  cliff, 
spiring  for  a  hundred  feet  or  more.  The  grass  was 
starred  with  flowers.  Some  horses  were  grazing  a 
little  distance  away  and  stood  at  gaze,  to  break  and 
wheel  and  gallop  away  with  flying  manes  and  tails. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  underbush  covering  the 
talus. 

The  trail  down  was  plainly  marked.    It  forked  after 


360  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

they  reached  the  general  level  and  the  branch  they  took 
led  into  a  side  gulch  where  a  log  cabin  stood,  smoke 
coming  from  its  chimney.  Plimsoll  took  the  rein  of 
Blaze  again  and  they  broke  into  a  canter.  At  the 
cabin  Plimsoll  took  Molly  from  the  saddle  and  carried 
her  into  the  rude  interior.  There  he  set  her  on  a 
chair.  Cookie  was  busy  at  a  stove  frying  ham  and 
eggs,  with  coffee  simmering. 

"You'd  better  sit  up  and  eat  nicely,  my  dear,"  said 
Plimsoll  as  he  unbound  her.  "You'll  have  to  sooner 
or  later,  you  know.  No  sense  in  being  stubborn," 

She  said  nothing  but  he  saw  a  gleam  in  her  eyes  as 
she  glanced  toward  the  table  where  Hahn  was  setting 
out  plates  and  cutlery. 

"You'll  eat  with  a  fork,  Molly,"  said  Plimsoll. 
"Those  steel  knives  are  too  handy  for  you.  There's  a 
nasty  look  in  those  blue  eyes  of  yours  that  will  have 
to  be  tamed — have  to  be  tamed,"  he  repeated  as  he 
took  a  demijohn  from  a  corner  and  poured  out  a 
liquor  that  sent  the  reek  of  its  raw  strength  sickeningly 
through  the  cabin.  "Here's  to  your  health,  Molly — 
Molly  Mine!" 

The  others  laughed  and  drank  their  share  before 
they  ate  the  food  that  Cookie  placed  before  them,  talk- 
ing louder,  growing  flushed  with  the  crude  whisky, 
while  Molly  sat  facing  the  door,  striving  to  catch 
something  that  might  help,  might  give  some  clue. 
But  the  talk  was  all  of  the  brawl  at  the  Waterline  with 
contemptuous  mention  of  Wyatt  and  the  rest.  They 
seemed  by  common  consent  to  ignore  her  once  she  had 
refused  the  food. 


THE  HIDEOUT  361 

This  attitude  weakened  her  resistance  though  she 
strove  against  it.  She  had  nerved  herself  to  meet 
action. '  Now  she  seemed  to  count  for  little  more  than 
a  bundle,  of  more  or  less  value,  that,  having  been 
secured,  could  wait  its  time  for  utility.  Yet,  before  she 
had  telescoped  her  vision  to  extend  through  and  beyond 
Plimsoll,  she  had  seen  devils  looking  from  his  eyes, 
smug  devils,  but  none  the  less  menacing,  risen  from 
the  man's  own  private  hell  pit. 

Plimsoll  looked  at  his  watch. 

"The  horses  should  be  showing  up  pretty  soon,"  he 
said  and  rose,  a  little  unsteadily.  The  effects  of  the 
liquor  were  patent  on  all  of  them.  "Butch,  you  and 
Hahn  go  down  with  Cookie  and  keep  'em  down  at  the 
south  end.  Get  'em  to  turn  the  horses  loose.  And 
get  them  out  of  the  place  as  soon  as  you  can  after 
they've  eaten.  Better  take  what  stuff  you  want, 
Cookie." 

"I  suppose  you'd  be  jealous  if  we  stuck  around," 
said  Butch,  leering  now  at  Molly.  The  whisky 
seemed  to  have  been  an  acid  test  for  his  features,  dis- 
solving all  that  was  not  brutal.  Hahn's  cold  sneering 
face  was  none  the  less  evil. 

"How  long  do  you  want  us  to  give  you,  Plim?" 
asked  the  dealer.  "No  sense  in  our  sticking  round 
here  that  I  can  see." 

"We've  got  to  get  the  boys  out  of  the  way,  haven't 
we?  Keep  your  eyes  peeled  on  Cookie,"  Plimsoll  said 
in  a  lower  voice  as  the  ranch  chef  went  out  of  the  door 
with  his  arms  piled  with  provisions.  "He  might  take 


362  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

a  notion  to  talk  too  much.  We  had  to  let  him  in,  but 
he  don't  have  to  stay  in.  Soon  as  the  boys  are  away 
you  come  back  and  we'll  go  out  again  this  end,  if  all 
is  clear." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  stow  her?"  asked  Hahn. 
"Leave  her  here  in  Split  Rock  Cave?" 

The  callous  reference  to  her  as  if  she  was  something 
inanimate  chilled  Molly.  If  only  she  had  a  gun !  She 
had  laughed  at  Donald's  tenderfoot  insistence  upon 
carrying  the  one  he  had  brought  west  as  a  part  of  his 
outfit  and  had  never  attempted  to  use.  The  cook's 
too  well  thrown  rope  would  have  probably  thwarted 
any  move  of  hers  if  she  had  had  a  weapon.  Her  fin- 
gers crept  up  toward  her  throat  touching  a  slender 
chain  upon  which,  ever  since  she  had  returned  to  the 
Three  Star,  hung  a  gold  disk,  the  coin  with  which 
Sandy  had  gambled,  the  luck-piece.  To  Molly,  even 
now,  it  was  a  talisman  that  held  promise.  If  they  left 
her  behind  them,  somehow  Sandy  would  unearth  her. 
But  that  hope  died. 

"She'll  stay  in  sight  and  touch,"  said  Plimsoll. 
"Then  we'll  know  she's  safe.  We'll  make  Windy 
Gulch  to-night  and  stay  there.  It's  as  good  a  place 
as  I  know.  One  of  us  can  ride  over  the  mountain  to 
Redding  and  mail  the  letter." 

Butch  nodded.  "Come  on,  Hahn,"  he  said.  "Let's 
leave  'em  together." 

Molly  cast  an  involuntary  glance  at  the  opening 
door,  watched  it  close  after  the  pair  of  blackguards 
and  braced  herself.  The  issue  was  at  hand. 

Plimsoll  slid  a  bolt  on  the  door,  brought  over  one 


THE  HIDEOUT  3^3 

of  the  makeshift  chairs  and  placed  it  in  front  of  Molly, 
seating  himself.  His  alcohol-laden  breath  reached  her 
nauseatingly  and  she  turned  her  head  aside.  As  if  a 
trigger  had  been  released  Plimsoirs  face  became  in- 
flamed with  a  passionate  fury.  The  veins  on  face  and 
neck  swelled  and  writhed  like  little  blue  snakes,  his 
eyes  congested. 

"Damn  you!"  he  said.  "Don't  you  turn  your  head 
away  from  me.  I'll  train  you  to  better  manners  before 
I'm  through  with  you.  You'll  be  jumping  to  do  what 
you  think  I  want  you  to  before  long.  You'll  be  beg- 
ging me  for  favors.  You  may  think  you're  too  good 
for  me  now.  You  won't  presently." 

She  saw  that  she  had  gone  too  far  in  her  disdain; 
that  she  must  try  to  leash  the  devils  that  had  broken 
loose  in  his  brain. 

"Just  what  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice 
seemed  not  to  belong  to  her  as  she  uttered  the  words 
that  showed  no  tremor. 

"You!  Not  for  love,  my  beauty!  Because  you  are 
good  to  look  at — yes.  But  I'll  take  my  time.  I'll  sip 
at  the  dish,  my  dear.  I've  got  a  big  score  to  settle  and 
I'll  do  it  properly.  We'll  go  over  some  of  the  items." 

He  got  up  and  emptied  a  bottle  that  still  held  a  gen- 
erous measure.  He  staggered  slightly  and  fumbled 
the  chair  as  he  sat  down  again.  Molly  watched  him 
intently.  If  only  he  got  sufficiently  drunk.  Before 
the  rest  came  back.  Perhaps  she  could  get  his  own 
gun?  Plimsoll  laid  a  familiar  finger  on  her  knee  and 
instantly  loathing  showed  in  her  eyes.  He  laughed. 

"Using  that  busy  liT  brain  of  yours,  eh?    Figurin' 


364  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

I'll  get  drunk.  Want  to  play  Delilah  ?  Nothin'  doin', 
m'  dear.  I  made  that  booze  and  I  know  just  how  it 
treats  me,  sabe?  Now  then. 

"Your  guardian  angel  Sandy  chiseled  me  out  of  my 
share  in  the  Molly  Mine  belongin'  to  me  'count  of 
grubstakin'  your  father." 

"That's  a  lie." 

"That's  easy  to  say  when  it  nets  you  a  fortune. 
Easy  to  go  back  on  a  dead  man's  agreement.  Four- 
flushing  Sandy  Bourke  ..." 

Molly  suddenly  slipped  back  into  the  primitive. 
Something  seemed  to  click  and  the  refinement  she  had 
learned  and  used  so  far  fell  like  a  cloak  that  is  dropped 
for  freedom  in  battle.  With  the  malignment  of  Sandy 
and  her  father  she  was  Molly  Casey,  daughter  of  a 
Desert  Rat,  once  more. 

"That's  another  damned  lie,"  she  said. 

"Haven't  forgotten  how  to  swear,  have  you?" 

"I've  heard  how  Sandy  Bourke  chased  your  rotten- 
hearted  jumpers  out  off  the  claim  and  gave  you  until 
sun-up  to  sneak  out  of  town.  I've  heard  how  you 
were  afraid  to  look  at  him  through  the  smoke  but  went 
galloping  off  while  the  whole  camp  laughed  at  you. 
Sandy  a  four-flusher !  A  coyote'll  fight  when  it's  cor- 
nered, but  you  .  .  ." 

She  had  heard  the  whole  story  from  Keith.  It  was 
a  favorite  tale  of  the  promoter's.  He  used  it  as  pub- 
licity across  his  dinner  table.  It  gave  the  right  touch 
of  adventure  to  Casey  Town.  Plimsoll  grew  slowly 
livid. 


THE  HIDEOUT  3^5 

"Heard  all  about  it,  did  you?"  he  said  slowly. 
"Then  you  know  some  of  the  score.  And  I  can  wipe 
off  what  I  owe  Sandy  Bourke  through  you.  And 
there  are  more  items.  There  was  the  first  time  we 
met.  I  haven't  forgotten  that.  There  was  the  kiss 
you  said  you  tried  to  bite  out  after  you'd  burned  the 
doll  I  gave  you.  You  told  about  that  the  next  time  I 
kissed  you  in  the  hammock  at  Three  Star.  You  tried 
to  rub  out  that  kiss,  too.  Maybe  the  next  ones  will 
stay  put." 

"That  was  the  time  Mormon  manhandled  you." 
She  saw  the  blue  snakes  crawl  on  his  purpling  skin, 
and  she  kept  her  eyes  on  them  though  her  mental 
vision  was  on  the  holster  beneath  his  vest.  She  delib- 
erately taunted  him  to  provoke  him  to  an  uncalculated 
move.  Molly  knew  her  own  litheness,  her  strength. 
If  she  could  get  inside  his  arms,  if  even  to  endure  a 
moment  of  his  beastly  embrace  and  could  get  a  grip 
on  the  gun  ? 

But  there  was  something  in  Plimsoll  that  delighted 
in  playing  with  a  victim  he  felt  sure  of.  It  soothed 
his  broken  vanity. 

"So,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  get  even  with  Sandy 
and  with  Mormon  and  that  bow-legged  fool  Sam 
Manning  who  call  you  the  Mascot  of  the  Three  Star, 
all  at  once ;  while  I  get  even  with  you.  And  get  what 
should  have  been  mine  at  the  same  time.  We'll  have 
you  tucked  away  while  we  mail  the  letter  that  will 
bring  your  ransom.  Never  mind  the  details  of  han- 
dling the  money.  I'll  attend  to  that.  But  we'll  bleed 


366  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

you  dry.  The  price  of  all  your  stock  and  that  of  the 
three  suckers  at  the  Three  Star  at  par — and  all  they 
can  borrow  on  the  ranch — that  will  be  the  price  for 
you,  my  lady.  With  three  days  to  deliver  in." 

"You  talk  like  a  crazy  man,  or  a  drunken  one.  They 
can't  sell  the  stock  in  that  time.  And  if  you  lay  a 
finger  on  me  they'll  trail  you  to  hell,  Jim  Plimsoll,  and 
the  devil  himself  won't  stop  them  from  skinning  you 
alive." 

Plimsoll  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  his  eyes  flick- 
ered and,  for  a  second,  his  cowardly  soul  shrank. 

"I'll  look  out  for  that,"  he  said.  "If  you  are  deliv- 
ered back  to  them  as  damaged  goods  they'll  never 
know  it  till  you  tell  them.  Maybe  you  won't  be  over- 
anxious to  do  that."  His  eyes  grew  moody,  his  man- 
ner sullen.  He  was  passing  into  another  alcoholic 
phase.  Molly  sensed  imminent  danger. 

"I'll  take  those  kisses  now,"  he  cried  and  lunged  for 
her,  catching  her  about  the  waist  as  she  rose  from  the 
chair.  "And  more  to  boot,"  he  added  thickly  as  he 
drew  her  to  him,  one  hand  at  the  back  of  her  head, 
fingers  twining  in  her  hair,  twisting  her  face  forward, 
upward.  She  had  both  arms  inside  of  his,  her  hands 
on  his  chest.  With  all  her  strength  she  strained  and 
pushed  away,  her  right  hand  slid  up  to  the  holster, 
groping. 

The  gun  was  not  there.  Plimsoll  had  reloaded  it 
during  the  meal  and  left  it  on  the  table.  His  breath 
sickened  her.  She  got  her  arm  clear  and  struck  him 
viciously  on  the  mouth,  breaking  the  lips  against  his 


THE  HIDEOUT 

teeth.  Fighting  like  a  cave-woman,  she  scored  his 
cheek  with  nails  that  dug  deep  from  the  corner  of  his 
eyelid  and  brought  the  blood.  As  he  shifted  his  hold 
she  wrenched  loose,  leaving  strands  of  brown  hair 
in  his  fingers,  and  jumped  for  the  door.  In  her  spring 
she  saw,  too  late,  the  pistol  on  the  table.  She  drew 
the  bolt,  half  opening  the  door  before  he  caught  her 
and  dragged  her  back  again. 

"You  wildcat,"  he  panted.  "I'll  fix  you." 
Like  a  panther  Molly  fought,  matching  her  young 
muscles  against  his,  striking,  clawing,  biting.  Her  rid- 
ing coat  ripped,  the  neck  of  her  waist  was  torn  away. 
Maddened  at  her  resistance  he  struck  back.  Once  he 
got  her  about  the  throat,  but  her  fingers  were  at  his 
face,  tearing  at  his  eyes  and  he  had  to  beat  her  off. 
The  girl  fought  with  all  the  sublimated  despair  of 
attacked  womanhood,  the  man  like  a  gorilla.  The 
struggle  was  unequal,  with  more  than  forty  pounds 
in  favor  of  Plimsoll  though,  if  Molly  had  possessed  the 
puniest  of  weapons,  she  might  have  won.  He  held 
her  at  last,  close  to  him,  one  arm  wrapped  about  her, 
his  right  hand  forcing  the  heel  of  the  palm  under  her 
tucked-in  chin,  slowly,  inexorably  forcing  it  back 
while  his  bleeding,  distorted  face  lowered.  This  time 
her  arms  were  locked  in,  bent  double,  useless.  Her 
kicks  were  futile,  she  had  only  her  teeth  left  and  she 
was  going  to  try  those.  But  she  knew  her  strength 
sapped,  knew  in  another  moment  or  two  she  would 
be  at  the  mercy  of  this  brute  who  did  not  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word. 


368  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

A  shadow  barred  the  half-open  door,  low  down.  A 
pointed  head  appeared  with  blazing  eyes,  with  a  neck- 
ruff  flaring  high.  White  teeth  showed  as  red  gums 
bared  in  hate  and,  forgetting  the  wounded  leg  that  had 
held  him  back,  Grit  hurled  himself  in  a  staggering  but 
magnificent  leap.  He  could  not  reach  Plimsoll's 
throat,  he  had  lost  much  of  his  momentum  through 
the  damaged  leg,  he  lacked  power  from  loss  of  blood, 
but  fury  gave  him  strength  for  the  spring  that 
brought  his  teeth  within  reach  of  PlimsoH's  right  wrist, 
exposed;  the  cuff  half-way  up  the  forearm.  Grit's 
teeth  slashed  like  chisels,  ripping  through  flesh,  tendon 
and  artery,  sending  jets  of  blood  spurting  before  Plim- 
soll,  with  a  yell  of  surprise  and  consternation,  flung 
Molly  into  a  corner,  dazed  and  weak,  and  threw  up  his 
left  forearm  to  guard  against  the  dog's  second  leap. 

It  fell  short.  Plimsoll's  right  hand,  scattering  blood, 
groped  blindly  for  the  gun  on  the  table  behind  him. 
He  found  the  barrel  and  brought  the  heavy  butt  down 
with  a  crash  on  Grit's  head,  back  of  the  ear.  The  dog 
dropped  like  a  length  of  chain.  Plimsoll  kicked  the 
body  viciously,  taking  the  bandanna  from  his  neck 
and  tying  it  tight  about  his  wrist,  fastening  the  knots 
with  his  teeth.  With  a  look  at  Molly,  crumpled  uncon- 
scious in  the  corner,  he  sought  for  more  liquor,  found 
it  and  poured  himself  a  big  jorum,  gulping  it  down 
while  the  blood  dripped  heavily  from  the  bandage.  He 
was  soggy  with  shock  and  fatigue,  the  strong  stuff 
half  paralyzed  his  faculties  and  he  dropped  into  a 
chair,  gazing  stupidly  at  his  wrist. 


THE  HIDEOUT  369 

His  imagination  was  a  curse  to  him.  He  had  seen 
Grit's  slavering  jaws  as  they  rose  in  the  leap,  the  crim- 
son glare  in  his  eyes.  To  all  intents  the  dog  was  mad. 
It  had  been  lying  wounded  in  the  sun.  Only  madness 
could  have  given  it  strength  to  track  so  far.  What  if 
it  meant  lockjaw — hydrophobia?  Through  his  dulled 
brain  ran  like  a  black  thread  the  impression  that  he 
could  feel  the  virus  stealing  through  his  veins,  stif- 
fening his  body.  How  long  did  the  damned  thing 
take.  And  the  horrible  ending!  He  had  seen  a  man 
die  of  it  once,  bitten  by  a  mad  collie,  the  same  breed  as 
the  brute  under  the  table.  He  had  done  for  him, 
anyway. 

Water — that  was  the  test!  There  was  water  that 
Cookie  had  brought  in  for  coffee,  half  a  bucket,  by  the 
stove.  He  felt  a  sudden  repugnance  toward  it.  The 
slashed  veins  in  his  wrists  burned  and  throbbed  as  if 
they  were  oozing  molten  lead  instead  of  blood.  And 
he  was  growing  weak.  If  he  didn't  get  a  tourniquet 
fixed  he  might  bleed  to  death.  But  what  was  the  use  ? 

Grit,  who  had  opened  a  way  out  for  Molly,  lay  still 
beneath  the  table.  Molly,  overtaxed,  was  in  a  swoon. 
Plimsoll  sat  in  a  stupor.  The  door  swung  wide. 
Cookie  rushed  in,  his  face  muddy  with  alarm. 

"The  show's  gone  wrong,"  he  cried  to  Plimsoll,  who 
stared  at  him  half -comprehending.  "For  Gawd's  sake 
what's  happened  here  ?  Gimme  a  drink."  He  snatched 
at  the  bottle  and  swallowed  from  the  neck.  "Here, 
you  need  a  swig.  We  got  to  git  out  ot  here,  pronto. 
Have  you  scragged  the  gel?"  He  thrust  the  bottle  at 


370  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Plimsoll  who  drank,  senses  rallying  by  the  urge  of 
danger  that  emanated  from  the  cook  like  the  sweaty 
stench  of  a  frightened  animal. 

"Brandon's  gang  has  come  back,"  said  Cookie. 
"It's  the  damndest  streak  of  luck.  They  must  have 
fell  in  with  Wyatt  or  some  of  his  pals.  They  must 
have  been  to  the  ranch.  They  cut  off  the  boys  and 
the  horses  over  by  Sand  Crick!  Reynolds  got  clear. 
He  saw  them  comin'  an'  streaked  it.  They  were  shoot- 
in'  like  hell,  he  said.  But  he  got  a  start  an'  he  fooled 
'em.  Lost  'em,  if  they  tried  to  foller  him." 

"And  led  'em  straight  here,"  said  Plimsoll  with  a 
curse,  getting  to  his  feet. 

"Not  him.  He  c'ud  lose  'em  twenty  times  between 
here  an'  Sand  Crick.  They  were  throwin'  lead  hard 
an'  fast  an'  too  busy  to  trail  him  if  they  saw  him. 
He's  gone  out  ag'in  through  the  south  end.  Case 
they've  got  some  one  who  does  know  the  way  in,  he'll 
side-track  by  Spur  Rock  an'  git  through  the  pass  at 
Nipple  Peaks.  It's  hard  goin',  but  we  can  make  it 
unless  we  can  git  out  this  end.  Hahn  an'  Butch  has 
gone  up  to  the  lookout  to  ...  Hear  that?" 

That  was  a  single  rifle-shot,  followed  by  two  others, 
the  last  almost  as  one. 

"Hell!"  cried  Plimsoll,  "they've  got  us  this  end. 
It's  Wyatt.  Just  my  damned  luck  for  him  to  meet 
up  with  Brandon." 

"Butch  says  it  was  the  deal  with  that  chap  from 
Phoenix.  He  allus  spotted  him  for  a  crooked  one. 
They've  planted  hawsses  on  us  to  prove  up.  And 


THE  HIDEOUT  371 

Wyatt  has  been  in  touch  with  Brandon  ever  sense  you 
took  his  gel  away  from  him.  Come  on,  I'm  goin'." 

He  ran  outside  and  Plimsoll  followed  to  the  door, 
lethargy  leaving  him  in  the  face  of  disaster  though  he 
could  not  think  fast  or  clearly.  Hahn  came  clattering 
over  the  rocks  on  his  horse,  his  face  chalky  white.  He 
was  reeling  in  his  saddle,  the  horse  spraddling,  wild- 
eyed,  almost  out  of  control.  Cookie  jumped  for  its 
bridle  as  Hahn  slumped  sidewise  in  the  saddle,  clutched 
for  the  horn,  missed  it  and  was  falling  when  Plim- 
soll caught  him  and  helped  him  to  the  wall  of  the  cabin 
where  he  leaned  weakly.  A  blotch  of  blood  showed  on 
his  left  shoulder. 

"Go  get  him  a  slug  of  whisky,"  Plimsoll  ordered 
Cookie. 

But  Cookie,  his  face  twitching  with  fright,  jumped 
for  his  own  mount  and  went  galloping  down  the  valley 
to  the  south. 

Plimsoll  sent  curses  after  him,  reaching  for  his  own 
pistol  before  he  remembered  it  was  inside,  dragging 
Hahn's  half  out  of  its  holster  and  then  quitting  as  the 
fleeing  cook  tangented  and  disappeared  behind  some 
timber. 

The  handkerchief  about  FlimsoH's  wounded  wrist 
was  now  a  sodden  rag,  but  the  loss  of  blood  had  cleared 
his  brain.  He  set  his  left  arm  about  Hahn  and  helped 
him  into  the  cabin.  Molly  was  stirring  and  Plimsoll 
scowled  blackly  at  her.  He  gave  Hahn  a  drink. 

"Brace  up,"  he  said,  "what  happened?  I  know 
about  Reynolds.  I  mean  at  the  lookout." 


372  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Hahn  finished  his  glass,  pushed  it  out  for  another, 
gulped  that. 

"Got  to  make  our  getaway/'  he  said.  "Butch  is  done 
for.  They  got  me  here  under  the  collar-bone.  I 
reckon  they  touched  tke  lung.  I  never  saw  such 
shooting.  But  Butch  got  Wyatt." 

"Tell  it  straight,"  demanded  Plimsoll.  "How  many 
of 'em?  What  did  they  do?" 

"We  no  more  than  made  the  lookout,"  said  Hahn. 
"before  six  men  came  riding  along,  heeled  for  trouble. 
One  of  them  was  the  black-bearded  guy  from  Cali- 
fornia who  was  here  with  that  Brandon,  first  time 
they  came  nosing  around.  And  another  was  Wyatt, 
God  blast  his  rotten  soul  in  hell  for  a  twisting  hound ! 
Wyatt  was  just  staring  to  point  'em  out  the  entrance 
when  Butch  lets  him  have  it.  Hits  him  smack  in  the 
forehead.  Before  he  could  show  'em  the  way  in.  He 
may  have  told  'em  about  it  on  the  way  up.  But  Black- 
beard  must  have  caught  the  shine  of  Butch's  barrel. 
He  fires  back — they  all  had  their  rifles  handy  cross 
the  pommel — the  bullet  goes  plumb  through  the  tree 
and  knocks  Butch  down.  Went  through  both  hips. 
He  falls  against  me  and  I  show  in  the  open,  sliding  on 
that  damned  slippery  boulder,  sliding  inside  and  out  of 
range,  but  they  got  me. 

"They'll  be  through  any  minute,  Plim.  They'll  go 
careful  until  they  find  there's  no  one  firing  back  at 
them,  then  it  won't  take  'em  long  to  figure  out  the  way 
in.  You  can't  tell  how  much  Wyatt  told  'em  on  the 
way  up.  They've  got  me.  I  can't  ride.  My  lungs  are 


THE  HIDEOUT  373 

filling  up.  Butch  is  paralyzed — if  he  ain't  dead.  A 
hell  of  a  wind-up !  You  can  make  it  out  the  way  Rey- 
nolds did.  None  of  the  gang  that  left  with  Wyatt 
knows  about  the  side-trail  by  Spur  Rock.  But  you'd 
better  beat  it.  Me,  I've  turned  my  last  card.  The 
case  is  empty!" 

His  head  fell  forward  on  to  his  arms.  A  trickle  of 
scarlet  came  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  Plimsoll 
looked  at  him  calculatingly.  Hahn  could  not  ride. 
But  he  wouldn't  die  for  a  while.  To  leave  him  here 
where  the  raiders  would  find  him  might  mean  a  con- 
fession wrung  from  him  that  would  tell  of  the  get- 
away trail  by  Spur  Rock  and  Nipple  Peaks.  He  shook 
Hahn  by  the  sound  shoulder. 

"Brace  up,"  he  said.  "You  can  hide  in  Split  Rock 
Cave.  I'm  going  to  put  the  girl  in  there.  Take 
another  drink.  Pick  up  some  grub.  There's  water  in 
the  cave.  You  can  come  out  soon's  the  coast  is  clear." 

"I'll  not  be  coming  out,"  said  Hahn  huskily.  "But 
it's  a  good  move."  He  weakly  collected  the  bottle, 
some  scraps  of  food. 

Plimsoll  stooped  over  Molly,  coming  out  of  her 
faint,  and  gagged  her  with  her  own  scarf  as  her  eyes 
opened  and  looked  at  him.  He  took  off  her  belt  and 
strapped  her  arms  behind  her  back.  Then,  despite  his 
wounded  wrist,  he  lifted  her  easily  enough  and  strode 
with  her  out  of  the  door,  Hahn  following. 

Hahn's  horse  was  standing  there  obediently  with 
pendent  reins  anchoring  it !  Blaze  and  Plimsoll's  black 
were  nipping  grass  in  the  little  corral  where  they  had 


374  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

been  placed.  Blaze  whinnied  at  the  sight,  or  the  scent, 
of  his  mistress.  Plimsoll  passed  the  corral  and  went 
through  a  grove  of  quaking  asps  close  to  the  wall  of 
the  side-gulch,  keeping  to  the  rock  as  much  as  possi- 
ble. He  turned  into  a  cleft,  stopping  at  a  rock  whose 
almost  flat  surface  was  level  with  his  feet,  a  great  mass 
of  granite  that  some  freak  of  weathering  or  convulsion 
of  earthquake  had  split  almost  in  half.  Into  the  crevice 
a  wild  grape-vine  had  twined,  and  died. 

"Can  you  make  it,  Hahn?"  he  asked. 

The  dealer  nodded  and  knelt,  using  his  sound  arm  to 
aid  himself  by  the  tough  fibers,  bracing  with  his  knees. 
Down  some  ten  feet  in  the  crack  he  looked  up,  his 
ghastly  face  pallid  in  the  shadow,  with  an  attempt  at 
a  grin. 

"Good-by,  Plim,"  he  said.  "Good  luck!  What  do 
I  do  with  the  girl?" 

"Keep  her  from  calling  out.  She's  gagged  but  she 
might  try  it.  Make  her  nurse  you.  Do  anything  you 
damn  please  with  her!" 

Hahn  dropped  out  of  sight.  Plimsoll  did  not  wait 
but  picked  Molly  up  from  where  he  had  deposited  her, 
a  helpless  bundle,  on  the  rock. 

"The  bottom's  soft  down  there,"  he  said.  "Sand. 
It  ain't  more  than  fifteen  feet.  Down  you  go,  you 
hellcat!  They'll  have  a  fine  time  locating  you.  And 
you've  got  a  dying  man  for  company.  He'll  be  a  dead 
one  before  morning." 

He  lowered  her,  feet  down,  released  her  and  watched 
her  disappear.  He  swung  about  and  ran  back  to  the 


THE  HIDEOUT  375 

corral,  his  hurt  arm  throbbing  with  his  exertion.  He 
had  entertained  a  brief  thought  of  hiding  in  the  cave 
himself,  but  the  fear  of  madness  from  the  bite  had 
not  left  him,  the  suggestion  of  it  coming  on  in  an 
underground  cavern  sickened  him  with  horror.  He 
craved  the  open.  He  flung  himself  into  the  saddle  of 
the  black  horse,  once  leader  of  a  slickear  herd  of  wild 
mustangs,  magnificent  for  speed  and  symmetry,  worthy 
a  better  master,  and  galloped  out  of  the  corral,  out 
of  the  side-ravine,  into  the  open  park.  The  rough 
towel  about  his  arm  was  becoming  soaked.  Every 
jump  of  the  black  horse  seemed  to  increase  the  bleed- 
ing. The  spurt  of  fictitious  energy  that  had  carried 
him  through  since  the  arrival  of  Cookie  was  dying 
away.  But  he  was  on  a  mount  that  none  could  match, 
he  was  going  on  a  trail  that  was  hard  to  follow,  prac- 
tically unknown.  Unless  he  was  headed  off,  he  could 
break  through.  At  Nipple  Peaks  he  could  rest,  attend 
to  his  wound. 

A  shout,  a  bullet  whistling  past  that  nicked  the  stal- 
lion's ear  and  sent  him  plunging  and  bucking,  warned 
him  that  his  enemies  had  found  the  way  in  and  were 
after  him.  He  did  not  look  back,  but  bent  forward  in 
his  saddle  and  sunk  the  spurs  into  the  black's  flanks. 
The  half-tamed  mustang's  indignant  bounds  spoiled 
the  aim  of  the  marksmen,  and,  though  the  steel-nosed 
missiles  hummed  like  bees  about  them,  they  gained 
the  shelter  of  the  same  trees  that  had  covered  Cookie. 
Belly  almost  to  ground,  the  black  swept  over  the 
cropped  turf  at  racing  speed,  the  drum  of  his  hooves 


376  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

like  distant  thunder,  crest  high,  crimson-satin  nostrils 
flaring,  mad  at  the  sting  of  the  red  notch  in  his  ear. 

Round  the  elbow  of  the  Hideout,  with  Brandon's 
men  distanced,  into  the  gorge  at  the  south  end.  A 
wild  scramble  up  a  steep  slope  and  the  way  to  Spur 
Rock  was  clear.  Plimsoll  smiled  grimly.  "Damn 
them,  I'll  beat  them  yet!"  For  a  second  he  was  sil- 
houetted against  a  sky-line,  then  he  plunged  down. 
Fresh  droppings  told  him  that  Reynolds  had  won 
clear.  He  was  safe  from  pursuit.  If  the  wound — he 
should  have  cauterized  it.  But  .  .  . 

He  reined  in  for  a  moment.  The  sound  of  a  shout 
rang  in  his  ears.  It  was  an  echo,  he  fancied,  it  must 
be  an  echo,  flung  back  from  the  mountain  walls  ahead. 
But  it  could  mean  nothing  else  than  a  view-halloo. 
Some  one  had  glimpsed  him  disappearing  beyond  the 
ridge. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MOLLY    MINE 

SANDY,  replacing  the  blanket  on  Wyatt's  face, 
examined  his  guns  and  started  climbing  up  to  the 
big  boulder.  He  could  not  see  the  rocks  displaced  by 
Brandon's  men  from  below,  but  he  picked  up  the 
bloody  imprint  of  Grit's  pad,  with  other  smears  of 
blood  less  distinctly  marked.  Soon  he  discovered  the 
narrow  opening  and  proceeded  cautiously.  The  moon 
was  quite  bright  now  and  the  daylight  almost  vanished. 
Only  the  afterglow  still  flamed  in  the  eastern  sky  back 
of  the  violet  cliffs.  The  touch  of  night  chill  was 
already  threatening,  great  stars  were  assembling  court 
about  the  moon. 

To  Sandy's  right  was  perpendicular  rock,  to  his  left 
the  curve  of  the  blocking  boulder  with  the  skeleton 
tree  topping  it,  withered  in  the  cleft  that  had  first 
nourished,  then  denied  it  nourishment.  It  gleamed 
silver  gray,  attracting  his  attention.  As  he  gazed  his 
sharp  ears  caught  the  tiny  crack  of  a  brittle  branch. 
Instantly  he  dropped  to  all  fours  as  a  spurt  of  flame 
showed  from  the  tree  and  a  bullet  whined  over  him, 
to  smack  against  the  rock  and  fall  flattened. 

Sandy  did  not  move.  He  knew  that,  to  the  man 
firing,  his  fall  might  have  seemed  a  hit,  that  he  had 

377 


378  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

beaten  the  missile  by  the  space  of  a  wink.  He  heard 
more  broken  boughs,  as  if  his  assailant  were  clumsily, 
assuredly,  clambering  out  of  ambush,  and  he  shifted 
silently  into  position,  rifle  set  down,  both  guns  ready. 
There  came  a  strange  thrashing  sound,  a  groan  of 
mortal  anguish,  silence.  If  this  was  a  trick  it  was  a 
crude  one.  Sandy  waited.  That  groan,  half  sigh, 
half  rattle,  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  half  circled  the 
boulder,  gliding  up  a  flattened  traverse,  and  saw,  lying 
outspread  over  a  low  bough  of  the  withered  tree,  face 
to  the  moon,  gun  away  from  the  curling  hand,  Butch 
Parsons. 

With  ready  gun  Sandy  reached  him,  bent,  turned 
him  on  his  side.  A  bullet  had  ranged  through  both 
hips,  shattering  them.  The  spine  must  have  been 
injured.  There  were  puddles  of  blood  that  told  the 
injury  was  some  hours  old.  Butch  had  lain  there 
paralyzed,  passed  by  Brandon's  men  as  dead,  lingering 
like  the  traditional  snake  until  sunset  to  see  and 
recognize  Sandy  coming  through  the  gap,  to  use  his 
last  remnant  of  life  to  pull  trigger  and  so  to  die,  the 
injured  vertebrae  giving  away  to  the  effort,  the 
spark  of  life  pinched  out. 

Sandy  left  him  and  returned  to  the  gap.  He  could 
still  read  sign,  plain  as  it  was  on  every  side.  He 
found  the  side-gulch,  saw  the  cabin,  saw  Harm's  sad- 
dled horse  grazing  free,  Blaze  in  the  corral,  the  cabin 
door  open  with  the  moon  streaming  in.  He  had  pieced 
out  the  puzzle  to  his  own  satisfaction.  Brandon  and 
his  men  had  arrived  and,  in  Hereford,  they  had  run 


MOLLY  MINE  379 

across  Wyatt,  procuring  horses  there  and  saving  them- 
selves the  trip  to  the  Three  Star.  Butch's  body  was 
evidence  that  they  had  not  been  unsuccessful,  Wyatt's 
that  the  fight  had  not  been  all  one-sided,  the  surprise 
not  perfect.  And,  if  Plimsoll  had  been  warned,  what 
had  become  of  Molly  ? 

He  got  an  answer  that  made  his  heart  stand  still, 
then  pound  in  a  rush  of  action.  On  the  floor,  in  the 
beam  of  the  moon,  lay  the  luck-piece,  a  few  links  of 
gold  chain  attached  to  the  coin.  Stooping  for  it,  he 
brushed  a  strand  of  brown  hair.  Then  he  saw  Grit's 
body  beneath  the  table.  Fury  boiled  in  him,  chilled  to 
icy  wrath  and  determination.  He  put  away  the  coin 
and  hauled  out  the  dog's  body  into  the  moonlight.  It 
was  limber  and  still  warm.  Sandy  rose  from  his  squat 
and  swiftly  examined  the  cabin.  He  discovered  a  lan- 
tern with  oil  in  it,  which  he  lit.  The  condition  of  the 
fire,  corroborating  other  signs,  told  him  that  the  fight- 
ing was  long  over  with,  the  issue  passed  on.  He  had 
no  fear  of  interruption.  Before  very  long  Sam  and 
the  Three  Star  riders  would  be  along.  The  sight  of 
Blaze  suggested  that  Molly  was  not  far  away.  If 
she  had  gone,  by  force,  or  her  own  free  will,  the 
probability  was  that  her  own  mount  and  saddle  would 
have  been  requisitioned. 

Sandy's  capacity  for  reading  sign  was  almost  with- 
out limit.  He  was  better  at  it  than  an  Indian  because 
he  had  equally  good  observation  and  better  judgment. 
But,  to  find  Molly,  with  the  ground  about  the  cabin 
cut  by  arriving  and  departing  feet  and  hooves,  with 


380  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

Blaze  in  the  corral,  was  a  miracle  that  called  for 
more  than  eyesight  and  deduction.  If  he  could  revive 
Grit  .  .  .?  • 

He  found  water  warm  in  a  kettle ;  he  had  the  first- 
aid  kit  with  its  bandages,  iodine,  lint.  And,  above  all, 
he  had  Keith's  silver  flask,  half  full.  He  did  not  fail 
to  note  the  empty  bottles  on  the  table,  the  blood  marks 
where  Plimsoirs  veins  had  sprinkled  and  Grit  had 
stained  the  floor.  He  found,  too,  a  button  of  horn 
with  a  fragment  of  black  and  white  check,  torn  from 
Molly's  riding  coat  in  the  struggle.  Sandy's  anger 
crystallized  into  one  ambition  beyond  the  finding  of 
Molly,  and  that  was  to  kill  Plimsoll,  if  possible  with 
his  hands.  He  pictured  the  struggle  between  the 
gambler  and  the  girl,  desperate  on  one  side,  brutal  on 
the  other  and,  whether  the  stake  had  been  won  or  lost, 
he  resolved  that  Plimsoll  should  die  for  that  attack. 

Now  his  hope  hung  on  Grit.  He  squatted  on  the 
floor  by  the  lantern,  a  gun  handy  in  case  of  need.  He 
took  the  collie's  head  on  his  lap  and  examined  the  blow 
made  by  the  butt  of  Plimsoll's  gun.  It  had  laid  bare 
the  bone  but  he  did  not  think  it  either  splintered  or 
fractured.  Grit's  tongue  lolled  out  from  between  his 
teeth  and  his  muzzle  was  dry,  yet  Sandy  fancied  breath 
still  passed  the  nostrils  and  that  there  was  a  faint  beat 
of  heart  beneath  the  heavy  draggled  coat,  matted  with 
the  blood  that  had  drained  life  from  him.  Sandy  knew 
that  dog  or  wolf  or  coyote  will  lie  in  a  torpor  after 
being  badly  wounded  and  often  recover  slowly,  waking 
from  the  recuperating  sleep  revitalized.  But,  if  he 


MOLLY  MINE  381 

could  bring  Grit  back,  he  must  make  fresh  demands 
on  him. 

He  washed  the  wound  on  the  head  and  poured  iodine 
into  it.  He  did  the  same  with  the  hole  in  the  leg, 
cleansing  it  from  the  dried  blood  and  hair.  It  had 
stopped  bleeding.  He  disinfected  it,  stitched  it,  closed 
it,  bound  it  with  adhesive  tape  and  strengthened  it 
with  a  bandage  adjusted  as  expertly  as  any  surgeon 
could  have  done.  He  pried  open  the  jaws  with  but 
little  resistance  and  let  the  tongue  slip  back  before  he 
poured  in  a  measure  of  Scotch  and  water  between 
the  canine  and  incisor  teeth.  He  tilted  Grit's  limp 
head,  shut  off  his  muzzle,  stroked  his  throat  and  let 
the  restorative  trickle  into  the  gullet.  For  a  moment 
there  was  no  response,  then  Grit  coughed,  choked, 
swallowed.  Sandy  repeated  the  dose  with  less  water. 
It  went  down  naturally.  Almost  immediately  he  felt 
the  heart  stroke  strengthen.  Grit  sneezed,  opened  his 
eyes  and  feebly  thumped  his  tail  as  he  licked  Sandy's 
hand. 

"Grit,  olj  pardner,"  said  Sandy  seriously,  the  dog's 
head  between  his  hands,  "yo're  sure  mussed  up  a  heap 
an'  I  hate  to  do  it,  but  I  got  to  call  on  you,  son. 
Mebbe  it  won't  be  such  a  long  trick,  but  I  can't  git 
by  without  yore  nose,  Grit.  It's  worth  more'n  all 
I've  got.  An'  I  know  yo're  game.  I'm  goin'  to  give 
you  some  mo'  of  Keith's  special  Scotch,  which  I  sure 
had  a  hunch  w'ud  come  in  handy,  an*  then  we'll  try 
it." 

Grit  wagged  his  tail  more  vigorously  and  tried  to 


382  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

get  on  his  feet,  but  Sandy  prevented  him  until  the 
third  dose  was  administered.  Then  he  carried  the  dog 
outside  to  save  him  every  foot  of  unnecessary  progress, 
and  set  him  down.  The  collie  stood  up,  wabbly  on 
one  foot  but  able  to  stand,  looking  eagerly  at  Sandy, 
commencing  to  snuff  the  air.  Sandy  let  him  smell  the 
coin,  the  strand  of  hair,  the  piece  of  cloth  and,  with 
his  keenest  sense  stimulated  with  the  perfume  that 
stood  to  Grit  for  love,  the  dog  wrinkled  his  nose  and 
cast  around.  But  he  led  direct  to  Blaze  and  stood  by 
the  horse  uncertain  while  Blaze  nosed  down  at  him. 

"Carried  out  of  the  cabin,  son,"  said  Sandy.  "We'll 
guess  at  Plimsoll.  He's  got  clear  of  the  locality. 
Blaze  knows  but  he  can't  tell.  We've  got  to  cast 
about."  He  picked  up  the  dog  again,  puzzled,  and 
looked  about  him  in  the  gulch,  suffused  with  moon- 
light. "There  sh'ud  be  soft  dirt  under  those  asps,  let's 
give  a  look-see  there." 

They  had  not  gone  five  feet  into  the  trees  before 
man  and  dog  made  a  simultaneous  discovery.  For 
Sandy  it  was  a  heel-mark  left  by  Plimsoll,  treading 
heavily  under  his  burden,  a  slight  depression  enough, 
but  plain  to  Sandy.  Grit  began  to  struggle  in  his  arms. 
Molly's  hair  or  body  must  have  brushed  against  lower 
boughs  at  the  same  height  that  Sandy  carried  the 
wounded  Grit  and  the  scent  still  clung. 

"They  c'udn't  go  fur  in  this  direction  by  the  looks 
of  the  place,  Grit,"  said  Sandy.  "See  what  you  can 
make  of  it."  He  put  him  down  by  the  heel-print. 
Grit  uttered  a  low  growl  deep  back  in  his  throat,  his 


MOLLY  MINE  383 

ruff  lifted.  Hatred  replaced  love,  but  the  two  odors 
and  emotions  were  inextricably  linked  for  Grit  that 
day.  He  started  off,  hobbling-  along,  leading  truly 
over  rock  or  sand,  into  the  cove  where  the  split  rock 
lay,  its  crevice  black,  the  vine  curving  down  into  it 
like  a  serpent.  Where  Plimsoll  had  laid  her  down 
Grit  halted  and  raised  his  head,  his  tongue  playing  in 
and  out  of  his  jaws  in  his  triumphant  excitement,  his 
eyes  luminous,  his  tail  waving  like  the  plume  of  a 
knight.  Sandy  gently  patted  him,  pressed  him  down 
to  a  couch. 

"Down  charge,  Grit,"  he  whispered  in  his  ear. 
"You've  got  it.  You  stay  here."  Sandy  had  left  his 
rifle  at  the  cabin  when  he  carried  Grit  out,  now  he 
spun  the  two  cylinders  of  his  Colts,  lowered  himself 
into  the  split,  holding  on  to  the  vine,  looking  straight 
into  Grit's  lambent  eyes. 

"Stay  here,  son,"  he  said  softly,  and  Grit  licked  the 
face  now  on  a  level  with  his  own.  "I'll  be  back." 

Sandy  doubted  whether  he  would  find  Plimsoll  in 
this  rock  hollow,  or  any  one  but  Molly.  There  had 
been  the  one  horse  saddled  and  grazing  free,  but  that 
might  have  belonged  to  the  dead  man  by  the  withered 
tree.  It  made  little  difference.  There  was,  to  him, 
the  certainty  that  Molly  was  there  and  there  was  no 
other  way  of  finding  out  or  getting  to  her.  He  had 
adventured  more  dangerous  chances  than  this. 

He  felt  his  legs  dangle  into  space  and  his  hands 
found  a  curving  loop  in  the  vine  trunk  that  sagged, 
slightly  under  his  weight.  Extended  at  full  length,  his 


384  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

toes  touched  bottom.  Letting  go,  he  dropped  lightly 
and  stood  in  blackness,  the  crevice  above  him  showing 
a  strip  of  azure  light.  Sandy  listened,  wishing  for 
Grit.  He  might  be  able  to  get  him  down,  now  that 
he  knew  the  depth  of  the  descent. 

There  was  only  the  sound  of  dripping  water.  He 
had  a  vague  sense  of  empty  spaces  all  about  him.  He 
ventured  a  match,  holding  it  at  arm's  length  in  his  left 
hand,  flicking  friction  with  his  nail,  an  old  trick.  The 
match  caught  and  began  to  blaze  instantly  in  the  still 
air.  Low  down,  and  to  the  right,  there  showed  a  stab 
of  flame,  the  roar  of  an  exploding  cartridge,  the  reek 
of  high-powered  gas  seemed  to  fill  the  cavern.  The 
bullet  passed  through  Sandy's  coat  sleeve.  If  he  had 
held  the  match  in  front  of  him  he  would  have  been 
shot  through  heart  or  lungs.  His  right-hand  gun 
barked  from  his  hip,  straight  for  where  the  flame  had 
showed,  then  to  right  of  it,  to  left,  above,  his  left- 
hand  gun  joining  in  the  merciless  probe.  No  second 
shot  came  in  answer. 

Sandy  lit  another  match.  Its  flare  showed  him  a 
sandy  floor,  slightly  sloping,  moist  in  one  place,  a 
charred  stick  almost  at  his  feet.  It  was  a  pine  knot, 
half  burned,  and  he  lighted  it  easily,  advancing  toward 
the  spot  where  he  had  flung  the  shots  he  knew  had 
silenced  whoever  had  fired  at  the  first  match.  He 
found  Hahn,  crumpled  up,  shot  through  the  right  arm 
and  a  thigh,  besides  the  other  wound  in  his  shoulder. 
There  was  not  much  life  in  him,  he  had  suffered  a 
hemorrhage  twice  before  Sandy  came ;  the  shock  of  the 
two  bullets  had  brought  on  another. 


MOLLY  MINE  3*5 

Sandy  turned  him  over,  brought  Keith's  flask  into 
play.  Hahn  looked  up  at  him  and  essayed  a  grin. 

"Yo're  game  all  right,  Hahn,"  said  Sandy.  "You 
ain't  the  man  I  was  lookin'  fo',  but  you  fired  first.  I 
see  I  wasn't  the  first  to  plug  you.  Mebbe  I  can  fix 
you  up  a  bit  ?" 

Hahn  shook  his  head. 

"Twouldn't  be  a  mite  of  use,"  he  said  huskily. 
"I'm  empty  of  blood  as  a  prohibition  flask.  I  reckon 
it  will  be  prohibition  for  me  from  now  on.  They  say 
it's  sure  dry  where  I'm  going.  No  grudge  against  you, 
Sandy.  I  thought  you  one  of  Brandon's  gang.  They 
got  Butch  and  me  an'  they're  chasm'  Jim  Plimsoll  to 
hell  and  gone — over  Nipple  Peaks — if  he  beats  'em  to 
Spur  Rock  he'll  fool  'em  on  the  black — I  couldn't  ride 
— he  left  me  here — with  the  girl — but  the  case  is  empty 
and  the  bank's  bu'sted — cashing — in — time  and  no 
chips." 

He  was  wandering  in  his  mind,  speaking  without 
control,  but  Sandy's  mouth  tightened  at  the  mention 
of  Nipple  Peaks,  relaxed  again  on  the  word  "girl." 
He  gave  Hahn  the  last  few  drops  of  whisky. 

"Where  in  hell'd  you  get  that?"  asked  the  dealer 
weakly,  coughed  violently,  collapsed,  shuddered, 
writhed  a  little  and  was  still  before  he  could  answer 
Sandy's  eager  question  about  Molly. 

He  found  her  without  much  searching,  rolled  down 
a  little  slope  beyond  the  crevice.  Under  the  light  of 
the  torch  her  eves  looked  up  at  him.  Her  hair  was  in 
disorder,  her  raiment  torn,  her  slender  body  wound 


386  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

about  by  the  lariat  rope,  her  mouth  and  chin  hidden 
by  the  tightly  drawn  bandanna,  but  her  gaze,  reflect- 
ing the  flare  of  the  pine  knot,  held  so  much  of  wel- 
come, of  faith,  of  pride  and  courage,  all  sourced  in 
something  deeper,  far  more  wonderful,  moving  be- 
neath the  surface  like  a  well  spring,  that  Sandy's 
heart  swelled  with  glad  emotion,  knowing  she  was 
unharmed,  knowing  that  his  coming  was  no  surprise. 
however  welcome. 

He  found  himself  trembling  as  he  untied  her  bonds 
and  took  away  the  gag  from  the  mouth  that  lifted  to 
his.  She  snuggled  into  his  arms  and,  as  the  torch 
sputtered  out,  leaving  them  in  the  darkness,  save  for 
the  luminous  beams  that  stole  down  from  where  Grit 
whimpered  in  joyous  impatience,  her  hair  showered 
down  over  both  of  them. 

"Sandy.  I  knew  you'd  come  in  time!"  she  whis- 
pered. 

He  held  her  close  and  hard  for  a  tense  moment  that 
gave  all  his  world  to  his  embrace. 

"Molly — girl,"  he  said  brokenly,  his  voice  broken 
with  passion. 

Her  hand  crept  up  and  a  soft  palm  cupped  about  his 
chin.  He  kissed  the  edge  of  it.  He  rose  easily,  still 
holding  her  and  lifted  her  high  to  where  she  could 
reach  the  vine,  swinging  up  after  her,  Grit  dancing  a 
three-legged  reel  of  joy  as  they  came  up  into  the  free 
air  and  the  moonlight. 

Blaze  greeted  them  in  the  corral.  Molly  mounted, 
and  Sandy  set  Grit  on  the  saddle  in  front  of  her. 


MOLLY  MINE  387 

"Where's  Pronto?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her. 

"I  figger  Sam  an'  the  boys'll  be  erlong  soon,"  he 
said.  "They  may  meet  up  with  Pronto.  Anyway, 
they'll  likely  bring  Goldie  fo'  me.  She's  up.  An' 
Pronto'll  be  too  tired  fo'  what  I  want  him  to  do  ter- 
night." 

She  sensed  the  change  in  his  voice,  intuitively 
guessed  but,  womanlike,  asked : 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sandy?  Aren't  you  coming 
home  with  me  to  Three  Star.  If  it  wasn't  so  far  I'd 
love  to  go  back  just  like  this,  without  meeting  any- 
body." She  had  taken  off  Sandy's  Stetson  and  she  ran 
fingers  through  his  hair,  thrilling  him  to  the  intimacy 
of  the  caress.  But,  if  there  was  any  plan  in  her  actions, 
it  did  not  deter  him  from  his. 

"Plimsoll's  makin'  fo'  Nipple  Peaks  an*  he's  likely 
to  git  clear.  Me,  I  aim  to  head  him  off  an*  settle  the 
account." 

"Sandy."  There  was  a  plea  in  her  voice  that 
plucked  at  his  heart  strings.  "Don't  spoil  to-night. 
Please!" 

"That  ain't  Molly  Casey  talkin',"  said  Sandy. 
"That's  somethin*  you  must  have  picked  up  back  to 
Keith's." 

"He  didn't  harm  me,  Sandy." 

"He  tried  to." 

Her  hand  slipped  to  his  shoulder,  touched  his  cheek. 
She  reined  in  Blaze.  Sandy  stood  beside  her,  straight 
and  stern,  his  eyes  implacable. 


388  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

"He  ain't  fit  to  live,"  he  went  on.  "I  w'udn't  be  fit 
to  go  back  to  Three  Star  where  yore  daddy  lies  an' 
know  he  was  there  in  his  grave  while  I  let  that  coy- 
ote go  loose.  I  found  the  luck-piece  on  the  floor  of 
the  cabin,  Molly,  with  a  lock  of  yore  hair  he  must  have 
tore  out,  a  button  an'  a  bit  of  yore  dress  he  nigh  tore 
off  you.  I  was  in  hell  when  I  thought  of  you  fightin' 
him  off  an*  if  I  have  to  wade  through  it  knee-deep  in 
flamin'  sulphur  I'm  goin'  to  find  that  snake  an1  make 
sure  he  quits  trailin'.  Why,  it's  my  job,  Molly.  What 
w'ud  you  think  of  me  if  I  let  him  slide?" 

"I  know,"  she  answered. 

A  horse  whinnied  from  down  the  ravine.  Blaze 
answered. 

"That'll  be  Sam  an'  the  boys,  Molly/'  He  cupped 
hands  and  sounded  a  "Yahoo !" 

The  answer  came  back  clear  through  the  evening, 
multiplied  by  the  rocks  about  them. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said. 

"Afraid?" 

"I  know.  I  never  was  before.  But  .  .  ."  She 
broke  off,  leaned  swiftly  down  from  the  saddle  and 
kissed  him. 

"Come  back  to  me  soon,  Sandy,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  END  OF  THE  ROPE 

PRONTO  had  chosen  his  own  trail  and  gait  back  to 
the  Three  Star.  It  was  Goldie  that  Sandy  rode 
under  the  stars  toward  Nipple  Peaks.  He  was  alone, 
refusing-  any  company  of  Sam  or  the  riders.  Molly's 
last  kiss  had  been  the  key  that  turned  in  the  lock  of  his 
heart  and  opened  up  to  reality  the  garden  of  his 
dreams  where  the  two  of  them  would  walk  together, 
work  together  all  their  days.  It  could  have  meant 
nothing  else.  And  she  had  been  afraid — for  him. 
Plimsoll  living  was  a  blot  upon  the  fair  page  of  hap- 
piness. Though  Molly,  thank  God,  had  come  through 
unharmed,  to  Sandy  the  touch  of  Plimsoll  was  a  defile- 
ment that  could  only  be  wiped  out  by  his  death. 

Nipple  Peaks  he  knew  by  sight,  two  high  mounds 
of  bare  granite  above  the  timber-line,  barring  the  way 
to  a  jumbled  country  of  peaks  and  ravines  and  cross 
canons  among  which  lay  Plimsoirs  Hideout.  Spur 
Rock  he  knew  only  by  rumor.  That  there  was  a  pass 
between  the  peaks  he  did  not  doubt.  And  he  rode  to 
meet  Plimsoll  coming  down  out  of  it.  To  have  re- 
turned to  the  Hideout  and  attempted  to  follow  a  rock 
trail  by  moonlight,  despite  its  brilliance,  would  have 

389 


390  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

been  sheer  folly.  Plimsoll  had  from  three  to  four 
hours'  start,  he  figured.  And  he  calculated  that,  with 
luck,  with  common  luck  and  justice,  he  would  pick  him 
tip  before  he  reached  the  base  of  the  mountain,  before 
he  got  into  the  timber.  If  not,  sooner  or  later  he  would 
cut  Plimsoirs  sign  and  follow  it  to  the  end. 

As  he  rode  over  the  finny  ridge  of  Elk  Mountain 
and  saw  the  Nipple  Peaks  gleaming  above  the  black 
pines  across  the  valley,  with  Elk  River  gleaming  in 
the  middle,  he  realized  that  he  had  said  nothing  to 
Molly  of  Keith,  of  the  shutting  down  of  the  mine  and 
his  own  action  in  her  name.  While  she  had  asked 
nothing  of  young  Donald.  For  the  time  it  had  been 
as  if  the  rest  of  the  world  had  been  fenced  off  from 
them  and  their  own  intimate  affairs. 

He  compressed  his  knees  and  the  mare  answered 
in  a  lope  that  stretched  into  a  gallop,  fast  and  faster  as 
she  reached  the  levels  and  sped  toward  Elk  River. 
Sandy  was  not  going  to  waste  time  looking  for  a  ford. 
The  mare  could  swim.  The  moon,  sloping  down 
toward  the  west,  still  above  the  range,  helped  by  the 
big  white  stars,  made  the  valley  bright  almost  as  day. 
He  scanned  the  mountain  toward  the  peaks,  passed 
over  the  dark  impenetrable  pines,  surveyed  the  stretch 
of  gently  rising  ground  between  the  Elk  and  the  trees 
and  shifted  his  guns  in  their  scabbards.  His  rifle  he 
had  left  with  Sam.  Either  Plimsoll  had  not  passed  the 
peaks,  was  in  the  woods,  or  he  had  come  and  gone. 
Something  told  Sandy  this  last  had  not  occurred. 
Travel  beyond  the  peaks  must  have  been  hard  and  slow 


THE  END  OF  THE  ROPE 

and  roundabout  for  Plimsoll  while  he  had  tangented 
fast  for  the  cut-off. 

The  mare  took  the  cold  river  water  about  her  fet- 
locks with  a  little  shiver,  wading  in  to  the  girths, 
sliding  to  a  deep  pool  where  she  had  to  swim  a  few 
strokes  before  she  found  gravel  under  her  hoofs  and 
scrambled  out.  Suddenly,  while  Sandy  hesitated  how 
best  to  arrange  his  patrol,  a  horse  came  floundering 
out  of  the  pines  less  than  a  quarter  jof  a  mile  away,  a 
black  horse,  shining  with  sweat,  tired  to  its  limit,  stag- 
gering in  its  stride,  the  rider  hunched  in  the  saddle 
more  like  a  sack  of  meal  than  a  man. 

Before  Sandy  could  turn  the  mare  toward  them  three 
riders  burst  from  the  trees  like  bolts  from  a  crossbow, 
spurring  their  mounts,  the  two  in  the  lead  swinging 
lariats.  They  divided,  one  to  either  side  of  the  foun- 
dering black  stallion,  one  at  the  rear,  gaining,  angling 
in.  The  ropes  slithered  out,  the  loops  seemed  to  hang 
like  suspended  rings  of  wire  for  a  second  before  they 
settled  down,  fair  and  true,  about  the  neck  and  shoul- 
ders of  the  black's  rider.  They  tightened,  the  lariats 
snubbed  to  the  saddle  horns,  the  horses  sliding  with 
flattened  pasterns.  The  black  lunging  on,  pitched  for- 
ward as  it  was  relieved  of  a  sudden  weight  and  its 
rider  jerked  hideously  from  the  saddle,  hands  clawing 
at  the  ropes  that  choked  his  gullet,  wrenching,  sinking 
deep,  shutting  off  air  and  light  with  a  horrid  taste  of 
blood  and  the  noise  of  thundering  waters. 

The  ropers  wheeled  their  mounts  and  galloped  back 
toward  the  woods,  the  limp  body  of  their  victim  drag- 


392  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

ging,  bouncing  over  the  ground.  The  third  rode  to 
meet  Sandy.  It  was  Brandon.  He  hailed  Sandy  with 
surprise. 

"How'd  you  happen  here  this  time  of  night,  Bourke? 
Not  looking  for  me?" 

"No.  I  was  looking  for  the  man  you've  just  caught. 
I  was  about  a  minute  too  late." 

Brandon  glanced  curiously  at  Sandy,  caught  by  the 
grim  note  in  his  voice.  But  he  made  no  comment. 

"Sorry  if  I  spoiled  your  private  vendetta,  Bourke. 
You  can  have  him,  what's  left  of  him,  if  you  want.  We 
were  going  to  swing  him  from  a  tree  with  a  card  on 
his  chest  presenting  him  to  Hereford  County,  with  our 
compliments.  As  it  is,  Bourke,  I'd  be  relieved  if  you'd 
keep  out  of  this  entirely.  Even  forgetting  you'd  met 
us.  We're  within  our  rights,  but  we've  done  some 
cleaning  up  to-night  that  we  might  have  to  explain  if 
we  stayed  too  long  in  the  state.  We  got  the  goods  on 
Plimsoll;  one  of  his  men  whose  girl  Plimsoll  had 
stolen  helped  us  to  pin  them  on  him.  We  met  him  at 
Hereford.  I'm  going  to  send  the  facts  and  proofs  to 
your  authorities.  They  may  not  approve  of  lynch  law 
these  days,  but  they  wouldn't  act — and  we  did.  I  don't 
fancy  they'll  bother  us  any.  He  wasn't  worth  the  ropes 
he  spoiled.  Just  as  well  you  kept  out  of  the  mix-up." 

Sandy  said  nothing.  There  was  no  need  to  mention 
Molly's  adventure. 

"Want  to  be  sure  it's  him?"  asked  Brandon.  "Let's 
look  at  the  black  first.  He  gave  us  a  hard  chase,  but 
we  were  too  many  for  him  and  rounded  him  up." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ROPE  393 

They  found  the  black  stallion  stretched  out  on  the 
turf  with  its  neck  curiously  twisted.  Tired  out,  it  had 
fallen  clumsily  and  broken  the  vertebrae.  It  was  quite 
dead.  Both  men  looked  at  it  silently,  with  a  mental 
tribute  to  a  good  horse. 

The  body  of  Plimsoll  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  big  pine. 
The  loops  were  still  tight  about  his  neck.  One  of  the 
ropes  had  been  tossed  over  a  bough.  The  two  men 
had  dismounted.  They  nodded  to  Sandy  as  he  came 
up  with  Brandon.  He  had  seen  them  before  on  their 
first  unsuccessful  trip  to  the  Waterline.  They  were 
horse-owners,  responsible  men,  who  considered  they 
had  administered  justice,  who  felt  no  more  qualms 
concerning  the  dead  man  than  if  his  body  had  been  the 
carcass  of  a  slaughtered  steer. 

"Waiting  for  the  rest  of  the  boys  to  come  up,"  said 
Brandon.  "We'll  hit  the  trail  home  to-night.  Bourke 
wants  to  identify  the  body,  boys." 

Sandy  looked  down  at  the  contorted,  blackened  face, 
and  his  disappointment  at  having  been  forestalled, 
sedimented  down.  The  gambler's  features  had  not 
been  made  placid  by  death ;  they  still  held  much  of  the 
horror  of  the  last  moments  of  that  relentless  chase,  his 
horse  failing  under  him,  foreknowledge  of  sudden 
death  and  then  the  whistling  ropes,  the  jerk  into  eter- 
nity .  .  . !  It  was  a  thing  to  be  forgotten,  a  night- 
mare that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  new  day  ahead. 

"It's  Plimsoll,"  said  Sandy  shortly.  "I'm  ridin' 
back  to  Three  Star.  I  found  him  hangin'  to  a  tree. 
Good  night,  hombres."  He  left  them  standing  about 


394  RIMROCK  TRAIL 

their  quarry  and  turned  the  willing  mare  toward  home. 
Peace  settled  down  on  him  under  the  stars  that  were 
fading,  the  moon  below  the  hills  when  he  rode  into 
the  home  corral. 

A  figure  was  perched  upon  the  fence,  waiting.  It 
was  Molly,  and  she  leaped  down  almost  into  his  arms 
as  he  sprang  from  the  mare.  In  the  gray  dawn  her 
face  seemed  drawn  and  weary.  There  were  the  blue 
shadows  under  the  eyes  that  he  remembered  seeing 
there  the  time  they  had  ridden  over  the  Pass  of  the 
Goats.  She  came  close  to  him,  her  hands  up  against 
his  chest. 

"You're  safe,  Sandy.    Safe!" 

"I  was  too  late,"  he  said.  "Brandon's  men  had  been 
ahead  of  me." 

"I'm  so  glad,  Sandy.  Your  hands  are  clean  of  his 
blood.  They  are  my  hands,  now,  Sandy." 

He  swept  her  up  to  him,  kissing  her  mouth  and  eyes, 
the  eager  pressure  of  her  lips  returning  all  with  full 
measure.  A  streak  of  rose  glowed  in  the  east  behind 
the  amethyst  peaks.  Her  face  reflected  it  like  a  mirror. 
The  tired  lines  were  gone  as  he  set  her  down. 

"How  long  have  you  been  waiting,  Molly?" 

"Ever  since*  I  got  back.  I  slipped  out  of  the  house 
when  the  rest  had  gone  to  bed.  If  you  hadn't  come 
back,  Sandy,  I  should  have  died." 

"I  don't  have  to  go  back  east,"  she  said  presently. 
They  had  left  the  corral  and  were  under  the  big  cotton- 
woods  by  Patrick  Casey's  grave.  "Do  I  ?" 

"I  don't  reckon  you  can,  even  if  you  wanted  to/' 


THE  END  OF  THE  ROPE  395 

answered  Sandy.  "I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Molly,  that 
you're  bu'sted,  so  far's  the  mine  is  concerned.  Listen." 

She  laughed  when  he  finished  speaking. 

"Is  that  all?"  She  patted  the  turf  on  the  green 
mound.  "I'm  sorry,  Daddy,  for  you,  it  didn't  pan  out 
bigger.  But  I  guess  what  you  wanted  most  was  my 
happiness — and  I've  got  that."  She  turned  to  Sandy. 
The  big  bell  of  the  ranch  boomed  brassily.  Molly  put 
her  hand  in  Sandy's.  "It  may  be  most  unromantk, 
Sandy  dear,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  hungry.  Let's  go  in 
to  breakfast." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  VERY  END 

HHHERE  was  a  council  held  later  that  day,  that  was 

JL  almost  a  council  of  war.  Sandy  was  in  the  chair, 
Mormon  and  Sam  present,  Molly  the  indignant  speak- 
er-in-chief. 

"I'm  very  much  ashamed  of  all  of  you, ?  she  said. 
"An  agreement  is  an  agreement,  and  we  were  to  share 
as  we  arranged.  We  shook  hands  upon  it.  I've  had 
three  times  as  much  as  any  one  of  you,  as  it  is.  I 
haven't  spent  all  of  it,  Sandy  tells  me. 

"I've  got  to  accept  Sandy's  share  of  it,  I  suppose, 
because  it  goes  with  Sandy.  As  for  you,  Sam  Man- 
ning, you'll  need  your  third  when  you  marry  Kate 
Nicholson." 

Soda- Water  Sam  gasped. 

"Marry  Miss  Nicholson?" 

"Certainly.     She  expects  you  to." 

"She — Molly,  it  ain't  no  jokin'  matter  with  me. 
She  wouldn't  look  at  a  rough-hided  cuss  like  me." 

"You  ask  her,  Sammy.  Mormon,  I  suppose  you'll 
have  to  hang  fire  until  you  find  out  about  that  third 
wife.  I  hope  the  fourth  time  will  be  the  charm.  It  will 
if  you  marry  Miranda  Bailey." 

396 


THE  VERY  END  397 

"You're  sure  talldn'  like  a  matrimonial  boorow, 
Molly,"  said  Mormon.  "I  sure  think  a  sight  of  Mi- 
randy.  She's  different  from  my  first  three.  They 
all  married  me,  fo'  me  to  look  out  fo'  them.  If  Mi- 
randy  can  be  persuaded  to  take  me  it's  becos  she  is 
willin'  to  look  after  me.  She  'lows  I  need  it,"  He  added 
sheepishly.  Then  he  chuckled. 

"I've  knowed  the  whereabouts  of  my  third  fo'  some 
time  back,"  he  said.  "She  got  a  divorce  six  years  ago. 
F.ve  kept  the  matter  secret  as  a  so't  of  insurance  policy. 
I've  allus  been  sort  of  unbalanced  in  my  leanin's 
to'ards  the  sex,  you  see.  An'  it  sure  acted  as  a  prop 
an'  a  defense  so  fur." 

"Then  the  meeting  is  closed,"  said  Molly.  "I  accept 
your  apologies  and  you  keep  your  money." 

Mormon  and  Sam  rose.  With  a  glance  at  each  other 
that  ended  in  a  wink,  they  left  the  room.  Molly  turned 
to  Sandy. 

"You  didn't  give  me  back  my  luck-piece,  Sandy." 

"What  does  a  mascot  want  with  a  luck-piece?" 

"She  would  like  it  made  into  an  engagement  ring, 
Sandy." 

"Why  not  a  weddin'  ring,  Molly,  Molly  mine  ?" 

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Highflyers,  The.    By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Hillman,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Hills  of  Refuge,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

His  Last  Bow.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

His  Official  Fiancee.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Honor  of  the  Big  Snows.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Hopalong  Cassidy.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Hound  from  the  North,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

House  of  .the  Whispering  Pines,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine 

Green. 

Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker.    By  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D. 
Humoresque.     By  Fannie  Hurst. 

I  Conquered.    By  Harold  Titus. 
Illustrious  Prince,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Inez.    (111.  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 


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Infelice.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Initials  Only.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Inner  Law,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Innocent.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

In  Red  and  Gold.    By  Samuel  Merwin. 

Insidious  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

In  the  Brooding  Wild.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Intriguers,  The.     By  William  Le  Queux. 

Iron  Furrow,  The.    By  George  C.  Shedd. 

Iron  Trail,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Iron  Woman,  The.    By  Margaret  Defland. 

IshmaeL  (111.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 

Island  of  Surprise.    By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 

I  Spy.    By  Natalie  Sumner  Linclon. 

It  Pays  to  Smile.     By  Nina  Wilcox  Putnam. 

I've  Married  Marjorie.    By  Margaret  Widdemer. 

Jean  of  the  Lazy  A.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Jeanne  of  the  Marshes,    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 

Jennie  Gerhardt.    By  Theodore  Dreiser. 

Johnny  Nelson.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Judgment  House,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Keeper  of  the  Door,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Keith  of  the  Border.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Kent  Knowles:  Quahaug.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Kingdom  of  the  Blind,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 

King  Spruce.    By  Holman  Day. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

La  Chance  Mine  Mystery,  The.    By  S.  Carleton. 
Lady  Doc,  The.    By  Caroline  Ix>ckhart. 
Land-Girl's  Love  Story.  A.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Land  of  Strong  Men,  The.    By  A.  M.  Chlshotm. 
Last  Straw,  The.    By  Harold  Titus. 
Last  Trail,  The.    By  Zane  Grey. 
Laughing  Bill  Hyde.    By  Rex  BeacTi. 
Laughing  Girl,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Law  Breakers,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cuilum. 
Law  of  the  Gun,  The.    By  Ridgwell  'Cullum. 


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League  of  the  Scarlet  ^Pimpernel.    By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Lifted  Veil,  Th<5.     By  Basil  King. 

Lighted  Way,  The.     By  E;  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Lin  McLean.    By  Owen  Wister. 

Little  Moment  of  Happiness,  The.     By  Clarence  Budington 

Kelland. 

Lion's  Mouse,  The.    By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Lonesome  Land.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Lonely  Stronghold,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Long  Live  the  King.    By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Lost  Ambassador.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lost  Prince,  The.    By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Lydia  of  the  Pines.    By  Honore  Willsie. 
Lynch  Lawyers.    By  William  Patterson  White. 

Macaria.    (111.  Ed.)    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Maid  of  the  Forest,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Maid  of  Mirabelle,  The.    By  Eliot  H.  Robinson. 

Maid  of  the  Whispering  Hills,  The.    By  Vingie  E.  Roe. 

Major,  The.    By  Ralph  Connor. 

Maker  of  History,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Malefactor,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Man  from  Bar  20,  Thft     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Man  from  Bitter  Roots,  The.    By  Caroline  Lockhart. 

Man  from  Tall  Timber,  The.    By  Thomas  K.  Holmes. 

Man  in  the  Jury  Box,  The.    By  Robert  Orr  Chipperfield. 

Man-Killers,  The.    By  Dane  Coolidge. 

Man  Proposes.     By  Eliot  H.  Robinson,  author  of  "Smiles." 

Man  Trail,  The,    By  Henry  Oyen. 

Man  Who  Couldn't  Sleep,  The.    By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Marqueray's  Duel.    By  Anthony  Pryde. 

Mary  'Gusta.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mary  Wollaston.    By  Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Mason  of  Bar  X  Ranch,    By  E.  Bennett. 

Master  Christian,  The.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Master  Mummer,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Men  Who  Wrought,  The.     By  Ridgwell   Cullum. 

Midnight  of  the  Ranges.    By  George  Gilbert. 


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Mischief  Maker,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Missioner,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Miss  Million's  Maid.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Money  Master,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 
Money  Moon,  The.    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 
Moonlit  Way,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
More  Tish.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Mountain  Girl,  The.     By  Payne  Erskine. 
Mr.  Bingle.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 
Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Mr.  Pratt.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Mr.  Pratt's  Patients.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Mr.  Wu.    By  Louise  Jordan  Miln. 
Mrs.  Balfame.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 
Mrs.  Red  Pepper.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 
My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 
Mystery  of  the  Hasty  Arrow,  The.    By  Anna  K.  Green. 
Mystery  of  the  Silver  Dagger,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Mystery  of  the  13th  Floor,  The.    By  Lee  Thayer. 

Nameless  Man,  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Ne'er-Do-Well,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Net,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

New  Clarion.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Night  Horseman,  The.     By  Max  Brand. 

Night  Operator,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Night  Riders,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

North  of  the  Law.    By  Samuel  Alexander  White. 

One  Way  Trail,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Outlaw,  The.    By  Jackson  Gregory. 

Owner  of  the  Lazy  D.    By  William  Patterson  White. 

Painted  Meadows.    By  Sophie  Kerr. 

Palmetto.    By  Stella  G.  S.  Perry. 

Paradise  Bend.     By  William  Patterson  White. 

Pardners.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Parrot  &  Co.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Partners  of  the  Night.    By  Leroy  Scott. 


